After Atlantis
by anondecepticon
Summary: Canon-faithful, Wheeljack-centric. An alternate ending to the G1 episode "Atlantis, Arise." Raped by Starscream, Wheeljack struggles to cope. Not your standard rapefic. Slash ensemble, multiple pairings. Rated M for mature themes; may be triggering.
1. Assault

**Title:** After Atlantis  
**Obligatory Disclaimer:** I don't own Transformers. This chapter contains canon references to the G1 cartoon episode _"Atlantis, Arise!"_ Additional episodes will be referenced in future chapters.  
**Warnings:** Non-con, slash (inasmuch as giant robots from outer space can be said to have gender), robot sex of the plug 'n play variety.  
**Image Credit: **Cover Art by the amazingly talented **NaggingFishwife**. Used with permission.

**Chapter 1: Assault **

Someone was touching him.

The awareness crept slowly into Wheeljack's processor, trickling back through a myriad of external sensors alongside assorted other observations: He was lying face down, his optics were offline, his motor relays were not responding, and _someone was touching him_.

He wanted to online his optics, to turn his helm and see who it was, what they were doing. But that ray that Nergill had used on him had done something to his circuits. He wasn't sure what – yet – but the long and short of it was that he couldn't move a micrometer.

He knew because he'd tried. The Sub-Atlantican ruler had laughed at his efforts, and gloated that his new weapon would spell the doom of all Cybertronians, Autobot and Decepticon alike. He had to warn Prime! If only he could move..!

Maybe it was already too late. He couldn't tell how long he'd been offline. His internal chronometer was glitched. So were his diagnostics. He couldn't tell how damaged he was. All he knew for certain was that he was lying facedown, blind, unable to move, and _someone was still touching him._

It might have been Nergill himself. After claiming Wheeljack as his prisoner, the strange aquatic humanoid had subjected him to numerous scans and probes – an experience only slightly less invasive than one of Ratchet's maintenance exams – in order to learn more about Cybertronian anatomy. So that he could invent that ray he'd blasted Wheeljack with.

But why continue to study him when it was readily apparent that the invention was a success? It wasn't logical. And Wheeljack found it hard to believe that it was Nergill touching him anyway – for one thing, the presence he sensed felt much larger, and for another, the continued touches were strangely…clumsy. He didn't know what to make of it. Whoever was touching him seemed both tentative and determined all at once. Persistent, yet…awkward.

What was it? _Who_ was it? What did they want with him? An Autobot rescuer would speak. A Decepticon wouldn't be so gentle. A Sub-Atlantican or human wouldn't be so large.

No, he was sure of it now. Hands. It was definitely _hands_ scraping across his backstruts, pawing at him. Large, metal hands. Cybertronian hands.

His optics abruptly onlined when one of those hands suddenly seized hold of his shoulder and tugged, hard. He was rewarded with a very close-up and heavily static-laden view of the floor. Another firm tug, and he realized that whoever-it-was was trying to turn him over, and had been for several kliks now.

And now at last they succeeded, flipping him onto his back with a jolting crash and half-falling across his chestplate in the process. Wheeljack's spark leapt in its chamber as he struggled to focus his damaged optics on his rescuer, frustrated by his inability to vocalize his gratitude –

The dark faceplate and scarlet optics glaring balefully down at him were unmistakable. His "rescuer" was the Decepticon Air Commander, Starscream.

x.x.x.x.x

Wheeljack didn't like the look Starscream was giving him. It was cold, calculating…malicious. He wouldn't have liked it under any circumstances, but he especially didn't like it when he was so utterly defenseless. Being unable to move, unable to speak, barely able to see, and having a Decepticon looming over him like that, _staring_ – it was the stuff of nightmares.

Threats to his existence had never really frightened Wheeljack. He risked himself all the time, readily – carelessly even, if Ratchet's frequent scoldings were to be believed. Whether it be in pursuit of some new invention, or to protect someone else, he never hesitated.

But he was frightened now. His spark had contracted painfully, and if he'd been able to move, he'd surely have been trembling. Was it _because_ he couldn't move, couldn't act? Probably.

Starscream was scratching at his chestplate now, still strangely clumsy, as if he couldn't completely control his fingers. Was Starscream damaged as well? Had he also been hit by Nergill's Magnetic Dysfunction Ray? Was he now silently asking Wheeljack for help? Suggesting they work together to escape alive and warn their comrades?

_He was opening his chestplate_.

Those clumsy, groping fingers had sought out and found the latches and triggered them, opening him up. His spark chamber was laid bare, exposed to the world. Internally Wheeljack keened in terror. Just what was Starscream planning to _do_ to him?

His optics fuzzed over with static and blanked out for 6.5 astroseconds. When they cleared – or rather, returned to their previous blurry-but-semifunctional status – he saw that Starscream was now gripping an interface cable in one unsteady hand.

_Oh, no_.

Oh_, sweet Primus,_ NO.

His servos whined as he strained to move, to struggle, to flee, _anything_. Anything to escape what was coming.

He couldn't move. His spark chamber was exposed. And Starscream was plugging in to him.

x.x.x.x.x

_He_ _could feel him_.

He could _feel_ Starscream inside him, poking around, invading his processor. His fuel tank churned, wanting to purge its contents. Underneath the easygoing exterior, Wheeljack was a very private mech. He couldn't remember the last time he'd interfaced – it had been prior to their arrival on Earth, so at least 4 million years – but he was certain it hadn't involved an uplink. A little frame foreplay, a little field manipulation, sure, but Wheeljack didn't uplink with just anybody. He had to fully _trust_ someone before he'd allow them direct access his systems.

And now Starscream, arguably the _least_ trustworthy mech in the known universe, was plugged into him. He wanted to flee. He wanted to purge. He wanted to recoil in revulsion. He wanted to shout in denial. Most of all, he wanted to rip that violating plug out of his intimate access port and expel that hideous _presence_ from his processor.

But he couldn't move. He couldn't fight. He couldn't escape. He couldn't even scream.

He fought back the only way he could, by bolstering his firewalls, striving frantically to defend his core programming and his most private memory files - but Nergill's ray had wreaked havoc on all his systems, and his damaged circuits were functioning with all the sluggish speed of a human's dial-up internet connection. There was no way Wheeljack would be fast enough to keep Starscream out once the Decepticon began to hack him in earnest.

The realization terrified him almost beyond thought, causing his processor to lock up for a few kliks. Panic seized him. He was trapped. Helpless. His spark pulsed wildly, as frantic as a cornered animal that knows a hungry predator is closing in...

...

Nothing happened.

...

Nothing was still happening.

Starscream was still plugged in to him; Wheeljack could feel his unwelcome presence looming in his processor. But instead of initiating a swift and relentless assault on his CPU, tearing down his firewalls and hacking his way into Wheeljack's memory core, Starscream's presence merely…hovered, seemingly content to linger at the very outermost edges of his consciousness, like a black cloud on a distant horizon.

Wheeljack wasn't sure if that was better, or worse.

_What_ _was he waiting for?_

x.x.x.x.x

A creeping thread of cruel amusement slithered over the link as Starscream finally spoke.

"I can feel your fear, Autobot."

With a sound of shifting metal and scraping glass, Starscream's weight settled more decisively on top of him. A slow finger traced its way along the outside of his spark chamber with mock tenderness, and Wheeljack keened internally, conflicted by the uncertain shiver of arousal the touch produced and the horrified revulsion he felt towards its source. He didn't want _Starscream_ touching him that way.

Starscream's energy field flared, washing over him, making his damaged circuits tingle. It felt...good. It shouldn't feel good, he didn't _want_ it to feel good – his spark quailed in horror even as his core temperature spiked. Starscream's hands were moving over his frame, delving into seams, tweaking wires, and all the while his energy field thrust and probed, mingling with Wheeljack's, teasing yet implacable.

"Relax," Starscream purred malevolently. "Trust me, you're going to _enjoy_ this."

Wheeljack's entire frame trembled as he struggled to move, to protest, to do _something_, Primus, _anything_ to stop what was happening to him. His own body, his own circuits had betrayed him – first by refusing to obey his commands to fight or flee, and now again as they reacted compliantly to the invasive, unwanted, and all-too-skillful ministrations of his foe.

It was horrible. It was _humiliating_. Starscream was touching him in ways only a lover should, ways the Decepticon had absolutely no _right_ to, and Wheeljack's treacherous systems were _responding_ to those efforts, responding in spite of his terror and disgust. His core temperature was steadily increasing, rising rapidly to unsustainable levels, his systems quivering on the brink of overload...

"That's it," Starscream hissed, rubbing his cockpit against him, continuing to push him closer and closer to the edge, his energy field pulsating hard and fast. "Just a little more..."

_No, please, I don't want this, please, stop –_

"Come on, Autobot. Give it up, give it up for me..."

Wheeljack tried to resist, he _tried_, but he couldn't hold it back. Circuits sparking, CPU consumed by defeated despair, he overloaded, his immobilized frame jerking minutely as the abhorrent pleasure tore through him in wave after sweeping wave. Above him, Starscream rocked back as the resulting energy surge blasted across the connection and slammed into him, blazing a searing path through his circuitry.

Reeling in post-overload haze, sickened by shame, Wheeljack once more became aware of Starscream's presence still lurking at the outer fringes of his consciousness. It dawned on him then that in spite of Starscream's actions, he'd felt no passion, no lust, no desire of any kind passing over the link at any time during the entire encounter, only the same cold, deliberate calculation mingled with smug, sneering disdain. It was only when those emotions were encompassed and overwhelmed by a sudden burst of fierce, malevolent _triumph_ that the truth finally struck home.

Wheeljack realized with a jolt that Starscream hadn't chosen this particular course of action merely for his own twisted pleasure. _That_ was why Starscream hadn't bothered to hack his CPU, or to complete the link between them. Starscream hadn't wanted an interface, not even a forced one. What he had wanted was _energy_. He had connected himself to Wheeljack and methodically stimulated him to the point of overload all for a single purpose: To absorb the resulting torrent of electricity.

Suddenly all the pieces fell into place. Nergill's Magnetic Dysfunction Ray operated by draining energy from vital Cybertronian systems, incapacitating them. Without sufficient energy, motor relays wouldn't respond, basic functions would begin to fail, and sensors and diagnostics would be rendered useless. Left alone, the victim would ultimately end up in stasis, but with a timely infusion of energy..!

Starscream had known, or figured it out, and used Wheeljack to replenish his depleted energy reserves. And now the Decepticon was calmly disconnecting himself from his unwilling Autobot donor and rising gracefully to his feet, all traces of his earlier clumsiness gone.

The last thing Wheeljack heard before slipping into stasis lock was Starscream's shrill cackle of victory.


	2. Aftermath

**Title:** After Atlantis  
**Obligatory Disclaimer:** I don't own Transformers. This chapter contains canon references to the G1 cartoon episode _"Atlantis, Arise."_ Additional episodes will be referenced in future chapters.  
**Warnings:** PTSD angst, references to rape.

**Chapter 2: Aftermath**

He onlined in the repair bay of the _Ark_. Ratchet was glaring down at him with that familiar expression that made him instinctively want to duck.

"Hey, Ratch," Wheeljack greeted him cheerfully.

The Autobot CMO made a derisive noise and stalked off with a dismissive wave. "He's fine. Get him out of my repair bay before I slag him myself."

Chuckling, Wheeljack rose from the berth and headed for his lab. Various other 'Bots greeted him along the way, asking after his condition, and he responded with his usual good humor. He was fine. Same old Wheeljack.

When he reached his lab, he immediately triggered the locking mechanism on the door and leaned heavily against it. He couldn't seem to stop shaking.

x.x.x.x.x

Everything had turned out fine, he learned. There had been a pitched battle in the middle of Washington, D.C. Optimus Prime had called in the Dinobots, Nergill had brought out his Magnetic Dysfunction Ray, Starscream had appeared and knocked it out of his hands, and then Grimlock had destroyed it. In a way, Wheeljack had made it all possible. He was the creator of the Dinobots, and he had also been the one to – albeit unwillingly – restore Starscream to full functionality in time for him to intervene.

Somehow, he didn't feel much like bragging about that.

He hadn't told anyone what had happened, about what Starscream had done to him. It actually bothered him more than he cared to admit, but he couldn't bring himself to talk about it. Just the thought of vocalizing it made his fuel tank churn and his circuits burn with shame. How would the others react if he revealed that a Decepticon had used him like that? Or worse, that he had – on some level, at least – _enjoyed_ it?

He _had_ overloaded, after all.

That was the part that disturbed him the most. He'd allowed it. He'd _let_ it happen. Oh, maybe not directly – he'd been damaged, immobilized, unable to resist – but in a sense, he had. If he'd been faster, he could have avoided being taken prisoner. If he'd been less uptight, he wouldn't have refrained from interfacing for so long and been less vulnerable to Starscream's assault, better able to resist. If he'd been smarter, he'd have figured out what Nergill's ray had done to him like Starscream had, known from the start what Starscream was up to, maybe even come up with a way to escape, rather than just lying there waiting to be rescued. Lying there letting Starscream –

So really, it was all his fault.

x.x.x.x.x

He couldn't recharge.

He'd tried, lain down on the berth and everything, but each time he offlined his optics, he'd _feel_ him. Feel Starscream. Feel the lingering echoes of the Seeker's presence in his CPU. Feel those knowing hands touching him.

Then he'd get up and purge his tanks again.

His energy reserves had dropped dangerously low. He needed to refuel – and keep it down – or someone, Ratchet probably, would notice something was off about him. And then the questions would start.

Primus, he couldn't deal with that. He was keeping it together for now – barely – but if someone started questioning him…

Within a few joors, every 'Bot would know. The _Ark_ was like that. News traveled fast. Bad news traveled faster.

Some would be sympathetic, feel sorry for him, offer him their pity. Certain others might begin to speculate aloud about whether or not the crazy inventor was secretly – or perhaps not-so-secretly – a 'Con lover.

He wasn't sure which was worse.

"Get a grip, 'Jack," he muttered to himself, rising wearily from his seat.

x.x.x.x.x

He headed for the common room, intent on acquiring an energon ration. He'd take it back to his lab and lock the door. No one would bother him if they thought he was working – they were too wary of potential explosions.

The plan was a good one, right up until the point where he got his cube from the dispenser and turned around – bumping straight into Bumblebee.

"Ooops, sorry – oh, hi, Wheeljack!" Bumblebee piped cheerfully. "How're you feeling?"

_Bumblebee had been the one that found him. Bumblebee and Spike. Found him with his chestplate open. Starscream hadn't bothered to close it before he left–_

Bumblebee frowned when Wheeljack simply stared at him, offering no response to his greeting.

Spike _wouldn't think anything of it – the humans were ignorant of certain details regarding Cybertronians – but Bumblebee _must_ have noticed. Must have wondered –_

"Um…Wheeljack? Are you okay?"

His optics flickered. "Fine," he replied, vocal indicators flashing. "I'm fine."

"'Cause I could comm Ratchet –"

"I _said_ I'm FINE!"

The minibot retreated a step, taken aback. "Right. S-sorry, Wheeljack."

He departed quickly, feeling Bumblebee's worried gaze on his retreating back, and doing his best to ignore it.

x.x.x.x.x

He managed to bury himself in his work, to stay focused on various projects. It kept him from thinking too much.

He'd returned to his lab, drank his energon, and resisted speculating about what Bumblebee knew, or guessed, or what he might have told others about him.

The door was locked. No one commed him. He'd debated setting off a small explosion as an added deterrent, but ultimately discarded the idea as too risky. It might draw _more_ attention to him.

He was fine.

As long as he didn't have to talk to anyone, recharge, or refuel, he was fine.

He flung the spanner in his hand across the room in disgust. "SCRAP!"

Someone caught it.

Hearing a sharp, decisive _clink_ instead of the expected loud, stuttering clatter, Wheeljack turned. The door was _locked_, how could anyone have –

Ratchet regarded him archly from the doorway, briefly glancing down at the tool balanced casually in his hand before returning his attention to the engineer who'd thrown it.

"Problem, 'Jack?"

He shrugged awkwardly. "Not really."

"I just had a chat with Bumblebee –"

"I'm pretty busy here, Ratch," Wheeljack interrupted. "Maybe you could come back another –"

"What happened, 'Jack?"

Ratchet's query was much softer than his usual gruff, crotchety tone. Hearing it made Wheeljack want to wince.

"Didn't get enough recharge, I guess," Wheeljack offered evasively. "Sorry I snapped at the little 'Bot. I'll make it up to –"

"It was the Sub-Atlanticans, wasn't it?"

Ratchet was still using that gentle, careful tone. Like a human dealing with a skittish animal.

Wheeljack felt a sudden, irrational surge of hostility towards his longtime friend and colleague. How _dare_ Ratchet talk to him like that? Like he was – was – _fragile_, or something?

"They did something to you, didn't they? Bumblebee said your spark ch–"

Wheeljack interrupted again, before Ratchet could actually say it out loud. "It wasn't the Sub-Atlanticans."

Cycling his vents in a sigh, his shoulders slumping in defeat, he muttered, "It was Starscream."

"_Starscream_? But he –"

"Nergill hit him with the Ray, too. Same as me. Only it didn't work as well on him. Maybe because he's bigger, or maybe Decepticon programming is different enough from ours that –"

"What did he do?"

Wheeljack just looked at him.

"Oh." Ratchet was a smart mech. He'd been around. And he was a medic. "_Oh._"

Wheeljack shrugged uncomfortably.

"Primus, 'Jack. Why didn't you say anything?"

His vocal indicators flickered fitfully. "No big deal. Everything worked out. Didn't seem important."

"_Not important?_ 'Jack, I'm the CMO! If Starscream hurt you–"

Wheeljack flinched. "He didn't _hurt_ me. You repaired me yourself, you should know."

Ratchet sighed. "There's different kinds of _hurt_, Wheeljack. Not all of them leave marks. Sometimes the ones that _don't_ are hardest ones to fix."

"Can you do that, Ratch?" he asked, optics fixed on the floor. "Can you fix this? Fix _me?_"

"I can try. Why don't you start by telling me what happened?"

x.x.x.x.x

He told him.

He related to Ratchet how he'd onlined on the floor, unable to move. How he'd realized someone was touching him, and then discovered it was Starscream.

"…and then he plugged in to me."

Wheeljack avoided Ratchet's optics as the words left his vocalizer. They'd come out smoothly, at least. Flat and toneless, but smooth.

Ratchet was silent for a klik, then asked softly, "Did he hack your processor?"

He shook his helm. "No. Wasn't what he was after."

"What do you mean?"

"He just wanted a quick recharge." His vocalizer tried for flippant and failed.

Ratchet frowned in confusion at first. But he knew the effects Nergill's weapon. He knew the condition Wheeljack had come back in, and how he'd repaired the damage. Realization dawned within astroseconds. "You're saying he – Starscream, he –"

"Yeah." It was hard to admit out loud. Even harder than he'd expected.

"And you..?"

A wave of hot shame crackled through his circuits. "Yeah."

Silence. Ratchet was apparently too stunned to reply.

"It wasn't like I _wanted_ to!" Wheeljack blurted out, vocal indicators flickering. "He – I just – I cou- I couldn't _move_, Ratch, and it – it'd been a really long time, and he just kept – he wouldn't stop, I _wanted_ him to stop, but I couldn-" He broke off abruptly, static clogging his vocalizer, breaking up his words and dissolving them into meaningless white noise.

Primus, and in front of _Ratchet_, of all mechs! It was almost as humiliating as what Starscream had done to him. Almost worse than talking about it. Mortified, Wheeljack turned his back on the medic, hunching his shoulders defensively as he struggled to get himself under control.

"'Jack," Ratchet said gently, "It wasn't your fault."

"Of course it was my fault! I _let_ him-!"

Ratchet seized his shoulders roughly, jerking him around to face him, cutting off his protest and giving him a firm, solid shake for good measure. "Listen to me, Wheeljack. It. Wasn't. Your. Fault."

Ratchet's vocalizer reverted to its usual stern, no-nonsense tone as he continued, enunciating each word for emphasis, "Your energy reserves were drained to _critical levels_. You were _immobilized_. You could probably barely process a complete sentence! Your autonomic systems responded the way they were _programmed _to, and in the state you were in, there was _no way you could have overridden them_. Do. You. Understand?"

Wheeljack stared at him, optics wide and flickering.

Ratchet's expression softened. "You couldn't have stopped him, 'Jack. I know it's hard for you accept that. I know you like to think you can handle anything. But sometimes you _can't_. Sooner or later we _all_ run into something we can't handle alone. And that's when we ask for help."


	3. Analysis

**Title:** After Atlantis  
**Obligatory Disclaimer:** I don't own Transformers.  
**Warnings:** PTSD angst and the TF equivalent of a rape kit. May be triggering.

**Chapter 3: Analysis**

"The first thing we need to do," Ratchet said, "is take a trip to the repair bay and give your systems a once-over."

Wheeljack started. "What? Why? You already repaired me, Ratch! You said I was fine!"

"True," Ratchet allowed. "But at the time I thought the only repairs I needed to perform were those related to a critical energy drain. I didn't know Starscream had forced you to uplink with him, so I didn't check your CPU for any of the various little nasties he might have infected you with. Those 'Cons are probably lousy with viruses and bad code, and I wouldn't put it past Starscream to implant a hostile program deliberately, either. Considering the condition you were in at the time, he could have done it without you even knowing."

Wheeljack stared at him, horrified. Ratchet was right. It _was_ the sort of thing Starscream – or any Deception really, but Starscream especially – would do, and he'd had the perfect opportunity to do it.

Seeing his distress, Ratchet was quick to add, "There's a good chance I won't find anything. You said Starcream was hit by Nergill's Ray too, so he may have been too damaged himself to try anything that elaborate. You also said he didn't hack your processor, so odds are you'll come up clean. But as a precaution, I need to check. We have to be sure."

He agreed reluctantly. Under the circumstances, he could hardly refuse.

x.x.x.x.x

When they arrived at the repair bay, Ratchet immediately led him to one of the private rooms at the rear. Wheeljack's first response was relief – he'd spent the better part of the walk over trying to come up with a plausible excuse for why he was back in the repair bay so soon after his last visit, especially when he'd been publicly declared fully functional at the time, and there'd been no explosions or 'Con attacks since – but upon entering the room and watching Ratchet key in the locking code on the door, he began to feel distinctly...uneasy.

What on Cybertron was _wrong_ with him? This was _Ratchet_, for Primus' sake! If there was any mech who could be trusted, it was Ratchet. So why did he suddenly feel trapped?

Ratchet gestured toward the berth. "Up you get."

Wheeljack's processor whirled, searching desperately for some reason to refuse. "Do we really have to do this _now_, Ratch?"

"The sooner the better," Ratchet replied. "If Starscream _did_ slip something in, we need to find and remove it quickly, before it's had a chance to do too much damage."

Wheeljack nodded, unable to argue with that logic. But he still made no move toward the berth. "So, uh…how will you do it?"

"The scan? Pretty much your standard CPU scan. Shouldn't take more than a breem. 'Course, if I find something –"

"No," Wheeljack interrupted, "I mean…how will you _do_ it?"

"Oh. I see." Ratchet suddenly looked hesitant, his relaxed "berthside manner" dissolving like smoke. He cycled his vents in a sigh, reluctant to vocalize what he needed to say. "As you're probably aware, the best way for me track what Starscream might or might not have done…is to access your systems the same way he did."

Wheeljack remained silent for a long moment. He'd already known – or suspected, at least – what Ratchet's answer would be, even before he vocalized the question. One of the perils of being a mechanical genius; you knew how most repairs were affected.

"So you can't just use a medical access port," Wheeljack said quietly. It wasn't a question.

Ratchet didn't reply immediately. Wheeljack could feel the medic's optics on him, but made no effort to meet his gaze. He just waited, staring at nothing.

"No," Ratchet replied finally. "I'm sorry, 'Jack."

x.x.x.x.x

He'd gotten on the berth.

There just wasn't any way around it. He wasn't willing to take the chance that some virus of Starscream's malicious design might be quietly wreaking havoc on his systems. Megatron had reprogrammed mechs before – sending them back to betray their unsuspecting friends – and Wheeljack doubted his second-in-command was any more honorable. Statistically speaking, _less_ was more likely.

So he'd gotten on the berth and lain back, pretending to be relaxed when in reality he was anything but.

"You can open up whenever you're ready," Ratchet informed him in that gentle, cautious tone.

Wheeljack bit back a sharp retort. Why did Ratchet have to use that stupid tone? It wasn't like he was going to _break_ if Ratchet talked too loud, for Primus' sake. Buoyed by his irritation, Wheeljack defiantly opened up his chestplate.

Ratchet gave him a long, searching look, then opened his own chestplate and drew out his cable. Swiftly and without preamble, he plugged in to the intimate access port located alongside Wheeljack's spark chamber.

Wheeljack stiffened at the sudden invasion of his frame and processor. He'd known it was coming, but somehow it still came as a surprise.

It felt _wrong_.

He knew in the logical part of his CPU that it was absolutely necessary to do this. He knew that Ratchet was safe, that he was trustworthy, and that he was trying to help him.

But that didn't stop the less-logical part of him from responding to the unfamiliar presence in his processor with sheer, unadulterated _panic_.

The unmistakable presence of _other_ in his CPU instantly triggered the memory files of his encounter with Starscream, and for several kliks he experienced both as if they were occurring simultaneously. Once more he sought frantically to defend his core, bolstering his firewalls to block out the intruding presence – _presences?_ – invading his processor.

This time, unimpeded by the damage caused by Nergill's ray, he was far more successful. Layer upon layer of blocks and firewalls rose in response to his commands, buttressing his core until his CPU was a veritable fortress. He was reaching for the violating plug, intent on tearing it out of his port, when a hand abruptly caught his, preventing him.

"'Jack," a sad, gentle voice said, "Don't make this harder than it already is."

Oh, Primus. _Ratchet_. The scan.

Sheepishly, he began lowering the firewalls he'd raised instinctively. Ratchet must have gotten some sense of his embarrassment across the link, because he commented, "It's alright. Perfectly understandable reaction." Sounding a little embarrassed himself, Ratchet added, "It's my fault, really. I figured it'd be less traumatic if I did it quickly, like resetting a broken strut. Guess I was wrong."

Wheeljack remained silent, not fully trusting his vocalizer. He concentrated on holding still and resisting the urge to fight, to defend against the slow, creeping presence steadily encroaching upon his CPU. He could sense Ratchet initiating the first stage of the scan, looking for traces of any parting gifts the treacherous Seeker might have left behind.

It wasn't just the memory files being triggered that made the scan difficult to endure. Even knowing it was Ratchet plugged in to him, and not Starscream, wasn't much comfort.

He'd never been intimate with Ratchet. They were colleagues, and they had a good working relationship, but neither of them had ever had the inclination to take things to the next level. Wheeljack wasn't really given to casual interfaces, even without an uplink. Ratchet, on the other hand, employed that particular form of tension relief quite frequently – usually with whoever happened to be nearby when the inclination struck.

Somehow that somebody was _never_ Wheeljack.

Given how much time they spent together, working on one repair or another, he could only conclude that his exception was no coincidence. It didn't really bother him – he liked Ratchet, but wasn't especially interested in him romantically – but knowing that they shared, at the very least, a mutual disinterest in one another made this particular situation profoundly awkward.

They were, in essence, interfacing. Certainly that was what anyone who saw them would conclude – which, he realized, was precisely why Ratchet had chosen to perform the scan in a locked private room in the first place – and while no energy was being exchanged, and no effort being made on either's part to stimulate any external sensor nodes, they _were_ intimately connected.

It wasn't supposed to be like this.

An uplink was something only lovers should engage in, a way to share their feelings for one another along with their pleasure, heightening both. All Wheeljack had felt from Starscream was disdain. All he felt now from Ratchet was pity.

The burst of static that escaped his vocalizer seemed very loud in the small room.

Ratchet's hand on his tightened, squeezing gently as he projected calm and reassurance across the link. "Hang in there, 'Jack. I'm almost done."

He didn't object to the gentle tone this time, to being treated as if he were broken.

He _felt_ broken.

He _was_ broken.

x.x.x.x.x

Ratchet hadn't found anything. The scan had come up empty. Starscream, it seemed, had had other things on his processor. Wheeljack was clean.

Or so Ratchet had said as he disconnected himself from him. Wheeljack didn't _feel_ clean. He wondered if he ever would again. At the moment he felt too emotionally drained to move.

"I have to tell Optimus."

Pulled from his musings, Wheeljack looked up. "What?"

"I have to report what happened to Prime."

He stared at him, stricken. "Ratch, _no_. You _can't._"

"I _have_ to, 'Jack," Ratchet said apologetically. "It's my duty as CMO to report any damage incurred by the mechs under his command. Optimus Prime needs to know about this."

Optics flickering, processor racing, Wheeljack said quickly, "But I wasn't damaged. So – so you don't have to report it to Optimus."

"'Jack–"

"I _wasn't_," he insisted. "Not technically. Not by Starscream. You didn't find anything, I'm fine."

"You're arguing semantics, 'Jack," Ratchet replied wearily. "I know this must be difficult for you –"

"You _don't_ know, Ratchet!" he burst out, vocal indicators flashing wildly. "You have _no_ _idea_ – do you have _any_ idea–?"

He broke off abruptly, lunging off the berth to confront Ratchet directly. "You _know_ what'll happen, Ratch! You'll put it in a report to Prime, he'll tell Prowl and Jazz – Red Alert'll probably find out too, even if no one actually _tells_ him – and the next thing you know, _everyone_ will know about it! It's bad enough that it _happened_, do you have to tell the whole slagging _Ark_, too?"

He fell silent, his intakes heaving, optics flickering. He wanted to say more, but his vocalizer was already clogging with static, and Wheeljack had had enough humiliation for one day. He was _not_ going to break down in front of Ratchet.

Not again.

Ratchet stared back at him, clearly startled by the vehemence of his outburst.

Swallowing the tattered remains of his pride, Wheeljack forced himself meet his optics. "_Please_, Ratchet."

The look of _pity_ Ratchet was giving him made his spark clench painfully.

He couldn't bear that look. He averted his gaze.

"All right, Wheeljack," Ratchet relented. "If that's how you feel about it, I'll file the report as a part of your confidential medical file. Restricted access – my optics and Prime's only."

Wheeljack nodded reluctantly. It would have to do.


	4. Anxiety

**Title:** After Atlantis  
**Obligatory Disclaimer:** I don't own Transformers. This chapter contains references to the G1 cartoon episode _"Day of the Machines."_ Additional episodes will be referenced in future chapters.  
**Warnings:** PTSD angst, references to rape.  
**Author's Note:** For those who've been wondering about the rapid updates, I'm back-posting. There are currently around ten chapters in total, and they're going up as quickly as I can edit and post them. I write fast, but not _that_ fast. Things will slow down to about a chapter a week once I'm fully caught up. Until then, enjoy the ride!

**Chapter 4: Anxiety**

He couldn't recharge.

He was exhausted, practically ready to drop where he stood, but he just _couldn't_.

He couldn't face the sensor echoes, or the memory files they inevitably triggered. He'd hoped they'd get better with time, but no.

They'd gotten _worse_.

After the scan, Wheeljack had felt more at ease, secure in the absolute certainty that his circuits were clean. For the first time since...it happened, he'd initiated a recharge cycle without hesitation, confident that any lingering traces of Starscream still lurking in his processor were just that and nothing more.

He figured he could handle a few sensor ghosts. He'd just ignore them. It had been bad, yes, but was over now, _really_ over. He was safe, clean, and functioning at optimal levels. There was nothing to be afraid of.

So he'd lain down on the berth that evening, studiously ignoring the faint flicker of unease that flashed through his CPU, and offlined his optics.

He'd been calm. He'd been in control.

He'd slipped into recharge feeling almost...relaxed.

He onlined with a start a few joors later, feeling anything _but_.

It was because of the scan, he surmised. It _had_ to be, because now _Ratchet_ was in there too, in his CPU, a comfortingly _familiar_ presence sickeningly interwoven with the horrific jumble of fear and humiliation, persistent phantom touches and shrill, mocking laughter.

_That_ was disturbing enough all by itself, but when Wheeljack had risen from the berth, intent on finding a datapad or something to tinker with, some form of distraction, he'd noticed something else that made it even worse.

He was running hot.

The sound of his own cooling fans humming away in his chassis made his fuel tank roil in self-disgust. Primus, what was _wrong_ with him? Having your recharge cycles plagued by sensor echoes of a bad experience was hardly pleasant, but at least it was _normal_.

Actually being _aroused_ by those echoes...

The energon in his tanks lurched, practically boiling at the thought. The next thing he knew, he was purging again.

Afterward, feeling weak and shaky, he sat down and waited for his systems to normalize, trying not to think.

He didn't think about Starscream. He didn't think about Ratchet. He definitely didn't think about the heat suffusing his chassis, or how easy it would be to just tweak a few wires and–

That was how he'd ended up in Command, even though he was technically supposed to be off-duty. It was why he was present to overhear Teletraan-1's warning about a fleet of oil tankers behaving erratically, and Dr. Gates' frantic late-night distress call.

Hound had offered to investigate the tankers, to go and find out what the Decepticons were up to. Normally Wheeljack would have been the first to volunteer to go with him, but this time he remained silent. Rescuing a human from some Earth mechanisms run amuck sounded far more appealing to Wheeljack than facing off against the Decepticons – and one Seeker in particular – directly.

When Prime gave the order to roll out, he'd transformed along with the others, heading for Quantum Labs.

Sparkplug had gone with him.

"I hope Spike will be okay," the human mechanic commented once they'd gotten on the road.

"He'll be fine," Wheeljack assured him. "Hound's with him, and Skyfire. They won't let anything happen to Spike."

Wheeljack knew Hound, knew the kind of mech he was. He was certain Hound would do whatever was necessary to protect the human boy, just as Wheeljack had done on...that day.

He hoped if it came to that, the cost wouldn't be too high. What if one of them was captured by the 'Cons, the way he had been? What if –

"Yeah, I know," Sparkplug said, interrupting his thoughts. "Spike's a resourceful kid; he can take care of himself. I know all that. But a father can't help worrying a little."

"Can't blame you," Wheeljack replied gloomily. "Sometimes bad things happen."

Sparkplug seemed to find his sober response less than reassuring. "Well…at least it's just recon. They shouldn't get into _too_ much trouble."

"Yeah," he agreed. "Dr. Gates is probably in more danger than they are, and we're on our way to help him."

Sparkplug nodded, "They're just regular machines at the lab. Compared to the Decepticons, taking care of them ought to be child's play."

A degree of anxiety Wheeljack hadn't even realized was there eased from him at the mechanic's words. Sparkplug was right; this would be easy.

He felt a sudden surge of gratitude towards the human. His presence was somehow…comforting. Reassuring. The small talk they exchanged during the remainder of the drive was a welcome diversion from his own weariness, from the unwelcome thoughts still haunting his processor.

By the time they arrived at Quantum Labs, Wheeljack was in good spirits and ready to go to work. He was the first to attack one of the machines that emerged to defend the laboratory against the Autobot rescuers, the first to tear one open and discover that no human was controlling it. He'd taken out the laser gun turrets when Prime gave the order, targeting them handily, his aim never wavering.

He felt almost like his old self again, confident and self-assured.

The machines proved to be more of a challenge than they'd expected, but when Optimus Prime called in the Dinobots, Wheeljack's spark surged with pride. They were, after all, _his_ creations, and in light of their rather shaky entrance into the Autobot ranks, it felt good to know that they were now considered a valuable asset to the cause.

But once they'd arrived, Grimlock had made a comment about how the Dinobots were always coming to their rescue, and he was suddenly reminded of the last instance of their heroics.

He hadn't been there to witness it personally; he'd been offline. Damaged, drained, and immobilized. Used and discarded by Starscream, awaiting ignominious discovery by Bumblebee and Spike, splayed out flat on his back, his spark chamber laid bare, left naked and exposed for all to see –

"Help! Wheeljack, Prowl, somebody! Get this thing offa me!"

Sparkplug's frightened cries shook him out of his daze. Wheeljack forced the unwanted memory files crowding his processor aside and rushed to aid him. He made short work of the robot welder, saving his friend.

"Thanks, Wheeljack," Sparkplug said. "Thought I was a goner."

"Not as easy as we thought it would be, huh?" he asked.

"I guess not," Sparkplug replied wryly as Wheeljack helped pull him free of the ruined machine. "Hey…what's that?"

Wheeljack looked in the direction Sparkplug indicated. His optics widened in surprise. "A remote control circuit linker!" he exclaimed. "_That's_ how TORQ is controlling these things! I bet there's one on every machine here! We've gotta tell Prime!"

"Better yet, let's _show_ him," Sparkplug replied, bending down to pry the small device free.

While they were busy checking the other destroyed machines for circuit linkers, Optimus Prime had rescued the trapped human scientists. A brief conversation with Dr. Gates, combined with the evidence of the Cybertronian remote control devices, solved the mystery of the misbehaving oil tankers. The circuit linkers and TORQ III's reprogramming were clearly the work of Megatron. Stealing the oil the tankers carried was his obvious goal.

It was evident that the only way to stop the Decepticon tyrant from gaining control of such a massive amount of energy was to stop TORQ. Once the human scientists were safe, Optimus blasted open the door, and a second wave of machines came pouring out. The Autobots quickly scattered, but nearly all of them soon found themselves facing off against a potentially deadly foe.

Wheeljack was no exception; he tried his best, but being low on energon and badly in need of recharge, his efforts were insufficient to the task. Within a few kliks he was trapped between the crushing jaws of a robot compactor – an unpleasant fate under any circumstances, but most especially for Wheeljack, who had learned all too recently what sort of misfortune could befall a 'Bot who was unable to move.

He began to panic.

"Wheeljack! Hang on!"

It was Sparkplug. As he craned his neck cables to look in the direction of the human's call, Sparkplug ran ran past him, a second machine following hot on his heels. Sparkplug halted alongside the robot compactor and the pinned Autobot, waving his arms.

"Hey, over here!" he called. The second machine – whose function Wheeljack couldn't immediately discern – veered sharply and charged, raising a pair of crablike robotic arms tipped with wickedly sharp-looking claws. Sparkplug held his ground until the last possible moment, then swiftly dove aside.

The robot compactor holding Wheeljack was struck instead, shuddering with the force of the impact as the vicious claws pierced its upper jaw with a horrid metallic screech, burying themselves deep within the compactor's metal hide. For a tense astrosecond the two machines remained frozen, locked together in a deadly embrace.

The compactor jerked violently as the crab-robot tugged, struggling to free its claws. A second, harder yank failed to release the clawed machine, but inadvertently caused the robot compactor's jaws to part briefly. Seizing the opportunity, Wheeljack squirmed free of its grip.

He fired one of his shrapnel-needle shells into the still-entangled pair the instant he rolled clear. At such close range, he didn't even need to aim. The resulting belch of smoke and shower of sparks was extremely satisfying.

He could almost ignore the way his intakes were heaving, his spark pulsing wildly in its chamber.

"Thanks," he murmured as he regained his feet, extricating himself from the mess. Wheeljack looked around, assessing the status of the battle. Most of the other Autobots appeared to have emerged unscathed. The remaining machines lay scattered around them, most of them now charred, smoking ruins or heaps of melted slag.

"Hey, I owed you one," Sparkplug replied with a smile. "You all right?"

"Sure," he said.

It was a lie.

Optimus Prime gave the order to fall back, and went in to face the crazed supercomputer alone, leaving Wheeljack and the others behind to await his return. Without the continued distraction of enemy mechanisms to fight, Wheeljack no longer had anything to buffer him against the flood of memory files assaulting his CPU.

He slumped against a nearby building, shaking uncontrollably.

x.x.x.x.x

By the time Prime emerged victorious from his battle with TORQ III, Wheeljack had managed to get himself back under control. The revelation that the tankers were still on a direct course to the Decepticon's undersea base in spite the supercomputer's destruction provided the distraction Wheeljack so desperately needed; he latched onto it like a lifeline.

He was so focused, in fact, he didn't notice Sparkplug watching him with a concerned frown.

Of course now the Autobots had no choice but to follow the course Wheeljack had most hoped to avoid: a direct confrontation with the Decepticons. It didn't help that Starscream showed up out of nowhere midway through the battle.

Wheeljack managed to get off a couple of shots, but highly doubted that he actually hit anything. The violent tremors in his hands made aiming practically impossible.

Nevertheless, they won the day with minimal damage, due largely in part the heroic actions of Optimus Prime. After returning to Quantum Labs with the hydrofoil, it had finally been time to head back to the _Ark_.

Wheeljack was grateful for that. By then he was so depleted he was almost willing to give recharging another try.

Sparkplug rode back with him. For several kliks they drove in companionable silence.

"You all right, Wheeljack?" Sparkplug asked suddenly.

"Sure," he replied affably. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"No reason," Sparkplug replied. "You just seemed a little…_off_, back there."

Wheeljack's spark clenched. "I'm fine," he said dismissively. "A little drained, maybe. I was just about to go and get some recharge when the call came in. Probably should've stayed behind, but I wanted to help."

"I hear ya," Sparkplug replied. "I'm not usually up this late myself, but when Spike said he wanted to go along…"

Wheeljack made an understanding noise. "I guess we'll both be glad to get back to the _Ark_ for some rest."

"I'm glad you're okay," Sparkplug said sincerely. "I overheard Bumblebee talking to Spike the other day; he said he was worried about you, was thinking of talking to Ratchet –"

"Bumblebee should mind his own business," he interrupted, the words coming out sharper and colder than he intended. "I'm fine."

Sparkplug seemed taken aback. "Well…you did get damaged pretty badly during that mess with the Sub-Atlanticans," he said reasonably. "and the whole reason you got caught in the first place was because you were trying to save 'Bee and Spike. He probably feels kinda responsible. I know Spike does."

"It's all right," Wheeljack replied, chastened. "I don't regret doing it. I wouldn't have wanted anything to happen to those two."

"I know you wouldn't," Sparkplug replied. "You're a good friend, Wheeljack. We're lucky to have you."

"Thanks," he replied, his spark warming along with his tone. "I feel the same."

"If you want, I could take a look at you," Sparkplug offered. "I know sometimes Ratchet can be kind of…well, you know how he is. I don't blame you for wanting to avoid him."

"I'm _fine_," Wheeljack insisted, his tone chilling again. "There's nothing wrong with me that some energon and a few joor's recharge wouldn't cure."

Sparkplug fell silent, dropping the subject.

A few kliks later, he spoke up again. "You know, I fought in the Korean War, myself."

Wheeljack made a noncommittal noise, uncertain about the change in topics.

"Saw some pretty bad things, during the war. Got hurt pretty badly a couple times, too."

Wheeljack made no reply, but the level of tension within the interior of the Lancia increased noticeably.

"Stuff like that can get to you after a while," Sparkplug continued conversationally. "Make it harder to go back out and fight another day."

He made another noncommittal noise.

After a pregnant pause, Sparkplug sighed heavily, but made no further attempts at conversation.

They drove the rest of the way back to the _Ark_ in silence.

It was no longer companionable.

x.x.x.x.x

Wheeljack stalked down the corridor, quietly seething. He'd dropped Sparkplug off at the entrance to the _Ark_ with a curt farewell. Why did everyone have to keep _questioning_ him all the time? Why did they all have to insist on _poking_ and _prying_ and just plain not minding their own slagging business? Why couldn't they just act _normal_, instead of constantly reminding –

His internal comm pinged, interrupting his thoughts. He opened a channel. _*Yeah?*_ he replied absently.

_*Wheeljack, this is Prowl. Optimus Prime wishes to speak to you in his office_.*

His spark sank. Prime had to have received Ratchet's report by now.

_Great_, he thought. _More questions_.

_*What about?*_ he inquired over the comm link, struggling to sound as blasé as possible.

_*I didn't ask,*_ came the reply. _*Prowl out.*_

Wheeljack shook his helm, feeling almost amused. In the past there had been times when he'd found the tactical officer's brusque, official manner to be rude, bordering on offensive, but this time it was almost a relief. He found himself feeling strangely grateful to Prowl, for _not_ engaging in the usual social niceties.

For not asking awkward questions.

He gazed longingly down the corridor, cycling his vents in a sigh. He'd planned to pay a quick visit the common room to collect an energon ration, and then to retreat to his quarters or his lab, someplace private where he could be alone for a joor or two.

Prime's office lay in the opposite direction.

"Just not my night," he muttered to himself, and turned around, heading back the way he'd come.

x.x.x.x.x

When he arrived at Optimus Prime's office, his query ping was answered with an invitation to enter. The Autobot commander was seated behind the broad expanse of his desk; he greeted him as Wheeljack stepped through the door.

"Hello, Wheeljack," Optimus said. "Thank you for coming."

"Sure, no problem," he replied somewhat distractedly.

There was a datapad lying on the desk next to Prime's right hand. Wheeljack couldn't take his optics off it. Did it contain Ratchet's report? Had Optimus read it yet? How much had Ratchet included in it? What sort of _details_ had he thought necessary to provide–?

"I wanted to thank you for your assistance today," Optimus said, startling him from his thoughts.

Wheeljack tore his optics away from the datapad to meet his gaze. "Me?"

"Yes," Optimus said. "If you hadn't been there, we might have overlooked the circuit linkers. Without them as a clue, we might not have learned what Megatron was up to in time."

"It was Sparkplug who spotted the first one," Wheeljack replied uncomfortably, discomfited by the unexpected praise. "I just, you know, _identified_ it."

"Nevertheless, we were fortunate to have you along. I'm grateful you chose to come with us," Prime said. "Especially since you weren't assigned to duty at the time."

His spark quailed at the observation. Did his audials detect a faint hint of disapproval in Optimus' vocalizer? Were his words intended as a reprimand?

"I just wanted to help," Wheeljack said weakly, his vocal indicators flashing fitfully.

Prime offered no response to that; he simply sat, quietly regarding Wheeljack with serious optics.

Wheeljack fidgeted nervously, feeling trapped beneath that steady gaze. "Was there anything else you needed, sir?" he asked.

"No," Optimus replied. "I just wanted to thank you, and…ask how you were doing."

Wheeljack's optics shifted back to the datapad still lying innocuously on Prime's desk.

"I-I'm fine, sir," he stammered, wincing inwardly the moment the words left his vocalizer. He couldn't lie to _Optimus_, not right to his commander's faceplate–

"I mean, I – I could use some recharge sir, but I'm – I'll be fine," he amended awkwardly.

"I understand," Prime said, triggering another involuntary flinch. "As valuable as your assistance is to us, Wheeljack, I would not have you neglect your own basic needs in order to provide it. In war, some sacrifices are necessary. Others are not."

"Yes sir," Wheeljack concurred.

"If you find you require lighter duties for a time, to allow yourself to…get caught up," Optimus continued gently, "you need only ask. I'll make the necessary arrangements with Prowl and Jazz."

"Yes sir. Thank you, sir," he replied stiffly.

"You're dismissed, Wheeljack. Go and get some recharge."

"Yes sir," he repeated gratefully.

x.x.x.x.x

He couldn't get out of Prime's office fast enough. It was only through sheer force of will that he managed to exit the room in a relatively calm, unhurried manner.

Of course the corridor outside it wasn't much better. There wasn't normally a lot of traffic at this time of day, but there might be some. For the moment it appeared to be empty, which was fortunate, because Wheeljack once again found himself leaning against a nearby wall for support.

"Keep it together, 'Jack," he whispered to himself, clenching his hands into fists to keep them from trembling. "Just…take a moment, get a hold of yourself. Go and get some energon, then go back to the lab. You're all right, you can do this..."

Optimus Prime knew. He _knew_. Wheeljack was sure of it. Optimus was far too tactful to broach the topic directly, but there was no question in Wheeljack's CPU that Prime had read Ratchet's report, that he knew exactly what had happened to him.

All the clues were there: The praise, the hint of a reprimand. The carefully chosen words uttered in soft, gentle tones, the look of concern in those caring azure optics.

A part of him was almost pathetically grateful to Optimus for his discretion. If _Optimus Prime_ insisted Wheeljack talk about what happened, he couldn't technically refuse – he was, after all, the _Prime_. It was a huge relief that he hadn't. Breaking down in front of Ratchet had been bad enough. Doing it in front of Optimus…

Wheeljack shuddered at the thought, shame burning through his circuits.

But another part of him couldn't help but resent the careful treatment, the way Prime had behaved as if Wheeljack were still damaged, or as fragile as one of their human allies. It stung Wheeljack's pride, knowing that his leader thought he needed to be handled with such delicacy.

_What would you have preferred, 'Jack_? he thought acidly. _That he said, 'Hey, Wheeljack, heard you got fragged by Starscream! Is it true you actually _enjoyed _it?' _

The very thought made him wince. Optimus would _never_ say something so cruel. The Autobot leader had always been kind and diplomatic.

His irritation was suddenly swallowed by a wave of guilt. Optimus Prime was doing his best. Wheeljack understood the burden his leader was under, his desire to protect and shield his troops from harm in spite of the war. He was willing to bet that Ratchet's report had been a blow to Optimus, that Prime was probably even now blaming himself for sending Wheeljack on that mission, knowing that he'd come to harm while following his orders.

He cycled his vents in a sigh. It wasn't Prime's fault, what had happened to him. Optimus may have been the one to send Wheeljack on that mission, but it had been _his_ decision to allow himself be captured in an effort to ensure the others' escape. If it was _anyone's_ fault, it was –

_No_, he thought. _It wasn't my fault. Ratchet said it wasn't_.

...if only he could make himself _believe_ it.


	5. Acrimony

**Title:** After Atlantis  
**Obligatory Disclaimer:** I don't own Transformers. This chapter contains minor references to the G1 cartoon episode _"Atlantis, Arise."_ Additional episodes will be referenced in future chapters.  
**Warnings: **PTSD angst, references to rape.  
**Author's Note:** Thanks to everyone for their alerts, favorites and kind reviews.

**Chapter 5: Acrimony**

The common room was crowded.

Several 'Bots were clustered around the vidscreen, watching one of the human soap operas. Wheeljack had never really seen the appeal of such programs, but they were popular with a lot of the Autobots, the minibots in particular.

A number of other 'Bots were scattered about the room, seated at tables or standing in small groups, exchanging jokes, small talk and gossip as they consumed their morning energon rations.

Wheeljack headed for the energon dispenser, planning to grab a cube and make a quick exit. He didn't really relish the thought of socializing in his present state of mind, and he didn't think he could take any more inquiries into his health or well-being. Knowing the penchant for gossip at such gatherings made him especially uneasy – the longer he remained present and visible, the more likely some 'Bot would decide to make _him_ the next topic of their conversation.

He managed to get his cube without anything more strenuous than a brief greeting or two, and turned to leave.

That was when he noticed them.

Bumblebee, Spike and Sparkplug were huddled together in a corner, previously overlooked because their position was shielded from view by the intervening clusters of conversing mechs. Their bent postures and serious expressions made it clear they weren't engaging in the usual morning banter.

Wheeljack had a pretty good idea what topic they were discussing.

A flare of anger shot through his spark. His hands twitched, the left sloshing the energon in his cube, the right tightening into a fist. How _dare_ they talk about him behind his back! It wasn't any of their slagging business!

He was an astrosecond away from storming over there and giving them a piece of his processor when Bumblebee suddenly looked up.

Their optics met.

His anger was suddenly swept away in a cold wash of fear. He looked away quickly, but out of the corner of his optic he could see Bumblebee exchanging a few tense words with the two humans and rising from his seat.

Wheeljack's spark fluttered in panic, his processor scrambling for a means of escape. There was no way he could leave the room before Bumblebee reached him, not without his flight being obvious; he was too far from the door. Maybe he could pretend to be occupied..?

Three quick – but not _too_ quick – strides brought him to an empty seat at an occupied table. He sat down without preamble, setting his cube in front of him.

"Wheeljack?" Trailbreaker – the current occupant of said table – said in surprise, regarding him with startled optics.

"Morning, Trailbreaker," Wheeljack greeted him, vocal indicators flashing in a friendly manner. "Sorry, do you mind if I sit here? You weren't waiting for someone, were you?"

"N-no…" Trailbreaker stammered. "Well, actually, yes, I was waiting for Hound, but–"

"Oh, sorry," Wheeljack apologized, still watching Bumblebee out of the corner of his optic.

Bumblebee appeared stymied by this new development; he'd stopped in his tracks and now stood hesitantly halfway between his own table and Wheeljack's, looking uncertain. Given the subject Wheeljack suspected he intended to pursue, he figured it was unlikely Bumblebee would broach it in front of an audience.

"Crowded this morning," he commented. "I should probably just take my cube back to the lab –"

"You don't have to do that," Trailbreaker said quickly. "I mean, that is, I _was_ saving the seat for Hound, but he's not here _yet_, so – you can stay, if you want. I don't mind."

Bumblebee seemed to have come to a decision; he'd gone back to the table where Spike and Sparkplug sat waiting, and they had returned to their huddle.

"I guess I could stick around until Hound gets here," Wheeljack relented. "When he does, I'll clear out."

"Or you could join us," Trailbreaker offered.

"There's only two seats," he pointed out.

"Oh…right. Well, we could go somewhere else, I guess. Or some of the others might have left by then..."

"Sure, maybe," Wheeljack replied agreeably, glancing back at the other table. Bumblebee and the two humans were now leaving the common room; he watched them surreptitiously as they made their way toward the door.

It was all he could do not to slump over in relief. Instead he reached for his cube and took a sip, feeling the tension easing from his shoulder-struts.

"Working on any new inventions?" Trailbreaker asked hopefully.

It was an obvious conversational gambit made to avoid an awkward silence, but it struck him as a harmless one. "One or two," he replied somewhat evasively. "Still got some bugs to work out."

Trailbreaker nodded, but seemed to have exhausted his repertoire of small talk. The two mechs knew each other, or at least knew _of_ each other, and had some friends in common, but they'd never really socialized one-on-one.

"Did you and Hound have plans for today?" Wheeljack asked, doing his part to keep the flagging conversation alive.

Trailbreaker brightened noticeably at the question. "Yeah, yeah we're going out for a drive later, gonna check out some of the local Earth fauna. We've been doing that a lot lately. There's some really fascinating specimens out there. Earth's an amazing planet."

Wheeljack nodded, "Yeah, I've heard Hound say that."

Wheeljack was pretty sure Hound was with Mirage – talk about your odd couples – or at least he _had_ been, the last time Wheeljack checked in with the rumor mill. He wondered if some of the Towers mech's gloss had begun to wear off, leaving Hound in search of a mech who shared more of his interests. Trailbreaker _did_ seem more Hound's type…

"You could come along with us, if you want," Trailbreaker offered. "I'm sure Hound wouldn't mind."

"Thanks for the offer," Wheeljack replied. "I may take you up on that sometime. Unfortunately I've got some things to do, plus I really need to get some recharge. You know how it is."

"Yeah, I know," Trailbreaker said. "We're lucky to get any downtime at all. Those 'Cons never give us a break! We'll wear our tires bald, chasin' after them."

His chuckle was only partly forced. "They keep us hopping all right," he agreed. "Listen, I've got to get back to work. But it was nice talking with you."

Trailbreaker looked strangely disappointed. "Oh. Okay. See you around."

"See ya," Wheeljack said as he collected his cube. "Say hi to Hound for me."

"Will do," Trailbreaker called after him as he left.

x.x.x.x.x

Feeling in better spirits, Wheeljack made his way back to his lab, energon cube stashed in his subspace compartment for later consumption.

He'd thought about heading for his quarters and giving recharge another try, but ultimately decided against it – as weary as he was, he was in too good a mood. He didn't want to spoil it so soon, and was fairly certain a renewed attempt at recharge would darken his outlook very quickly.

He would have liked to try using a processor inhibitor to ensure a recharge cycle free of sensor echoes, but that kind of equipment was restricted, even to a mech of his rank who often assisted in the repair bay. Because they were classified as potentially dangerous devices, only the CMO was allowed access to them.

Wheeljack wasn't desperate enough to try and sneak one out of the repair bay. He didn't want to ask Ratchet for one, either; Ratchet already knew more about his personal problems than Wheeljack was comfortable with. Having to explain why he wanted the inhibitor would only exacerbate the situation.

Especially since Ratchet himself had begun making cameos in those same sensor echoes.

The only other semi-reliable ways Wheeljack knew of to induce a deep recharge – apart from collapsing due to critical energy depletion – were overcharging on energon or multiple intense overloads.

Neither of those options appealed to him, for obvious reasons.

Wheeljack cycled his intakes in a sigh, rounding the corner of the corridor that led to his lab. If he couldn't get his hands on an inhibitor, maybe he could jury-rig a device with similar properties…

Absorbed in his musings, he only happened to glance up as he neared his lab. The sight that met his optics froze both his servos and his CPU, halting him in mid-stride.

Bumblebee was standing outside the door, clearly waiting for him.

Something clicked over in his processor, and he was able to function again. "Bumblebee," he greeted him coolly.

"Hi, Wheeljack," Bumblebee replied. His tone was friendly, but more subdued than usual.

"Something you needed?" he asked.

"Kinda. I wanted to talk to you; you got a klik?"

"No," Wheeljack replied curtly, shouldering past him to key in the locking code on the door to his lab. When it hissed open, he entered immediately.

Bumblebee followed him inside. "It'll only take an astrosecond," he persisted.

Wheeljack gazed up at the ceiling, counting off .498 seconds on his internal chronometer, then said, "Time's up. Nice talkin' to ya."

Bumblebee stood stupidly a few steps past the threshold of the lab, staring worriedly at Wheeljack as he busied himself with some of the spare parts he'd left scattered across one of the workstations. After a few astroseconds, he recovered enough to stammer haltingly, "Um…listen, Wheeljack…"

"Are you still here?" he inquired, not looking up.

"Uh…yes," Bumblebee said uncomfortably. "Listen, Wheeljack, I know you're mad at me, and – and you _should_ be, I mean, it's my fault you got hurt, and I don't blame you for being torqued off…"

"I'm not mad," Wheeljack replied without pausing in his activity. "Seal the door on your way out."

Silence.

After several kliks had passed with no further efforts to engage him in conversation, Wheeljack risked a glance over his shoulder-strut, wondering if Bumblebee had finally taken the hint and left.

He hadn't. Bumblebee was still standing there, looking at him with a pathetically plaintive expression on his faceplate.

"I just wanted to say I'm sorry," Bumblebee said in a small voice.

Wheeljack turned back to his work without a word, ignoring him.

"I'm _really_ sorry," Bumblebee repeated quietly. "They…they hurt you, didn't they?"

"No, they didn't, actually," he replied, not turning around.

"I…I know they did something to your sp– "

"_No. _You _don't_ know," Wheeljack interrupted him, vocalizer cold and hard. "And no, they _didn't_."

"Wheeljack, I _saw_ –" Bumblebee began. He cut himself off abruptly when the engineer stiffened, the tools in his hands dropping to the table with a loud _clank_.

Wheeljack turned slowly, stalking over to the minibot, closing in on him until they were scant inches apart, practically scraping armor. Standing this close, he positively loomed over the smaller mech.

He glared down at Bumblebee through optics narrowed to mere slits. "I'm only going to say this _once_," he hissed, low and dangerous, his vocal indicators barely flickering. "You don't _know_ anything. They didn't _do_ anything."

Bumblebee stared up at him, frozen, his optics wide and alarmed.

"If I find out you've been saying otherwise, to _anyone_, I'll be very…_unhappy_," Wheeljack continued in the same soft, menacing tone. "And if I get unhappy, I _guarantee_ you'll be unhappy, too. Is that understood?"

"Y-yeah, s-sure," Bumblebee stammered.

"Now would be a good time for you to leave," he advised.

Bumblebee backed away quickly, stumbling several times in his haste before finally turning and scrambling out the door and back into the corridor.

Wheeljack stared at the door for a long time after it slid shut, his spark lurching in its chamber. When he finally moved again, he was surprised to discover that his hands were clenched into fists.


	6. Amity

**Title:** After Atlantis  
**Obligatory Disclaimer:** I don't own Transformers. This chapter contains references to (and quotes some dialogue from) the G1 cartoon episode _"Enter the Nightbird."_ Additional episodes will be referenced in future chapters.  
**Warnings:** PTSD angst, references to rape.

**Chapter 6: Amity**

He onlined with a jerk, sitting bolt upright in his seat. For a bad moment he wasn't sure where he was, but once his processor finished booting up and he'd refreshed his optics a few times, his previously-unrecognizable surroundings resolved themselves into the familiar features of his lab.

It wasn't hard to figure out what had happened. He'd been working on his latest project – a set of detection panels designed to supplement the _Ark's_ security system – when he'd finally reached his limit. His overtaxed systems had initiated a forced recharge cycle in order to avoid critical depletion, and he'd keeled over right then and there.

At least there'd been no sensor ghosts. Forced recharge was deep, and difficult to override unless you were a medic. And he'd definitely needed it – his processor felt clearer now, more alert.

He checked his internal chronometer. It was late afternoon, which meant he'd only been offline a handful of joors. He wasn't assigned to duty until the following morning. He looked over the array of circuit panels and tools he'd left scattered across the table in front of him, but the thought of returning to work was unappealing. The lab suddenly seemed too quiet, too cramped and confining.

After a moment's deliberation, he heaved himself to his feet.

Occasional bouts of restlessness were nothing new to Wheeljack. Usually he dealt with them by taking an energon break or paying a visit to the repair bay to chat with Ratchet for a breem or two. Either option had proven effective at dispelling such feelings in the past.

His fuel levels were currently within acceptable parameters, and he still had half a cube in his subspace compartment, so rather than heading for the common room, he addressed his steps toward the repair bay.

Halfway there he stopped, wavering indecisively. A part of him desperately longed to talk to Ratchet, to exchange their usual jibes and banter, to enjoy the easy camaraderie and comfortable familiarity established over millennia of close association, but another part of him knew better.

Those days of were over.

His spark sank at the realization. If he visited Ratchet now, it wouldn't be the same. It wouldn't _ever_ be the same. Because now when Ratchet looked at him, he wouldn't see the mech who'd volunteered to raid a Decepticon storage facility for energy conductors to bolster their diminishing reserves, or the one who'd assisted him in saving the sparks of countless mechs – no, he'd see the mech who'd broken down in his lab as he confessed to what Starscream had done to him, the one who'd fought to hold himself together as he lay on a berth in repair bay while Ratchet diligently scanned his CPU.

And then Ratchet would ask how he was doing, in that gentle, careful tone that was so different from the one he normally used.

A sudden, overwhelming sense of _loss_ consumed him. He fought the urge to keen like a sparkling, to give voice to his abject misery.

It was as if Ratchet had died.

Depression enveloping him like a black cloud, Wheeljack turned and headed in the opposite direction.

x.x.x.x.x

He found himself standing at the entrance to the _Ark_, staring bleakly out into the desert.

"Wheeljack?"

Turning toward the voice, he found Trailbreaker standing there, regarding him with a look of mild surprise.

"Hey, Trailbreaker," he greeted him. "Going on another outing with Hound?"

"No, actually," Trailbreaker responded listlessly. "We were going to, but…Hound couldn't make it. Something came up."

"Decepticons..?" Wheeljack inquired, feeling torn. Having to fight the 'Cons wasn't something he was all that eager to do, but it _would_ serve as a distraction from his present mood…

"_Mirage_," Trailbreaker replied bitterly.

"Oh," he said with sudden understanding. "Sorry to hear that."

Trailbreaker shrugged, "It's okay. I'm kinda getting used to it."

"Why don't you just go without him?" he suggested. "It's a nice day, seems a shame to waste it."

"I could, I suppose," Trailbreaker mused. "Hey…why don't you come with me?"

Wheeljack looked at him in surprise. "Me?"

"Un-unless you're busy," Trailbreaker stammered.

He considered the offer. Hound's nature drives weren't really his thing. He found life on Earth interesting, but he tended to be more intrigued by the humans and their technology – primitive as it was – than by the simple organic life forms Hound found so fascinating. But it _would_ be something to do, something to keep his processor off….other things.

"Sure, why not?" he agreed. "I'm not on duty until morning; I could use a break."

He was surprised by how pleased Trailbreaker looked at his acceptance of the invitation. _Poor mech,_ he thought. _He must be almost as depressed as I am._

x.x.x.x.x

He'd forgotten how good it felt just to get out and _move_.

They'd started out slowly, Trailbreaker taking the lead and choosing their direction, but gradually, without really realizing it, Wheeljack began to accelerate. Within a few kliks he'd passed the other 'Bot, blazing a trail of his own up the winding mountain road they'd chosen.

The sensation of the smooth paved roadway unrolling beneath his tires and the wind gusting across his chassis felt _wonderful_. It felt like freedom. For a moment he felt as if it really _were_ possible to outrun your troubles and leave them behind you.

Then his comm pinged. _*Um…Wheeljack..?*_

He recalled with a jolt that Trailbreaker was with him, that he'd been the one to invite Wheeljack along on this drive – and that he was presently traveling _well_ beyond the other mech's top speed. Trailbreaker was in fact now quite a ways behind him.

He braked suddenly, so hard that he did a complete one-eighty before finally skidding to a halt. He could just make out the dark, blocky shape of the other 'Bot in the distance, determinedly chugging along in an effort to catch up with him.

_*Sorry,*_ he apologized over the link. _*Guess I had a mild case of cabin fever. Got a bit carried away there.*_

_*That's okay,*_ Trailbreaker replied. _*I don't blame you. If I could move like that, I'd probably do the same.*_

Trailbreaker's tone was an odd blend of wistfulness and bitter resignation, and Wheeljack cursed himself for his thoughtlessness – how could he have been so _rude_?

_*Speed isn't everything,*_ he said, keeping his tone light and casual. _*You'd beat me in the long haul.*_

_*I guess,*_ Trailbreaker replied moodily.

He pulled back around and resumed the road when Trailbreaker pulled even with him again. _*So where are we headed? I forgot to ask.*_

_*There's this scenic overlook a little further up the mountain,*_ Trailbreaker explained. _*I happened across it while I was out on patrol the other day. I pulled off to scan for Decepticon energy readings, and there it was. The view is really spectacular. I was going to show it to Hound–*_ he broke off abruptly, the link going quiet.

_*Sounds interesting; I'd love to see it,*_ he replied. _*Lead the way.*_

Trailbreaker pulled ahead, and Wheeljack fell in behind him.

He was careful to remain in that position for the rest of the drive.

x.x.x.x.x

The view really _was_ spectacular.

It went on for miles, jagged peaks stretching out endlessly in either direction, the steep drop falling sharply away until it reached the timber line, where it was overtaken by a cavalcade of majestic snow-dusted pines. Still further out, looking almost misty in the distance, was a broad patchwork blanket of fields and pastures spreading out toward the horizon. Here and there you could see the silvery glint of a river peeking through, glittering in the late afternoon sunshine.

For a long time they didn't speak at all, simply gazing out in awe at the panoply.

"Hound would have loved to see this," Wheeljack said at last.

"Yeah," Trailbreaker agreed gloomily. "Sorry for dragging you along instead. I know you're not really interested in this sort of thing. Thanks for coming anyway."

"Thanks for asking," he replied sincerely. "I'm glad I got a chance to see this. It really is amazing."

"You mean it?" Trailbreaker sounded genuinely surprised – but also pleased.

"Yeah, I really mean it," he said.

He really did.

Whether it was due to the peaceful, untroubled vista or Trailbreaker's calm, undemanding presence, Wheeljack wasn't sure, but for the first time in days, he felt truly relaxed. He could feel the tension easing from his servos, leaving behind a sense of simple contentment.

"Seems almost a shame to leave," he said quietly.

"We don't have to take off just yet," Trailbreaker replied. "The sun will be setting soon; if we wait a little while, I bet we'll really be in for a show."

"Sounds good to me," he agreed.

x.x.x.x.x

The sunset had proven well worth the wait.

"Hound's going to be really sorry he missed this," Wheeljack commented.

"I doubt it," Trailbreaker replied darkly. "I'm sure _Mirage_ is keeping him entertained."

"It won't last," he said encouragingly. "Sure, Mirage is exotic and attractive, but what do they have in common? Sooner or later he'll get tired of slumming, and Hound will be out on his aft. Or maybe Hound will get bored with him, once the novelty wears off. And then he'll come looking for you."

"Fat chance," Trailbreaker replied dejectedly. "It's like you said: Mirage is attractive and exotic. Worse than that, he's _useful_, what with that cloaking device of his. I can't compete with _that_. I'm slow and clunky, nothing but a big energy sink. I'm _worse_ than useless."

"I wouldn't say that," he replied, startled by the sheer self-loathing in Trailbreaker's tone. "Your force field's a very impressive piece of technology."

"Yeah, one that uses up even _more_ energy," Trailbreaker retorted. "What good's a tool you can't afford to use?"

Wheeljack started to reply, but Trailbreaker wasn't finished.

"I don't expect you to understand; you're actually _useful_," he continued. "You're fast, and smart, you come up with all these amazing inventions–"

"At least half of which end up blowing up in my faceplate, and don't work besides," Wheeljack interrupted him, his tone light and teasing. "You may be slow, but at least no one thinks you're crazy."

Trailbreaker looked at him in surprise. "Other 'Bots think you're crazy?"

"What would _you_ call a mech who constantly blows himself up?" Wheeljack asked, amused. "Doesn't bother me. Pit, they're probably right. To come up with the _really_ innovative ideas, you almost have to be a little crazy." He shrugged. "You have to go with your strengths, make strengths out of your weaknesses, if you can. Doesn't do you any good to dwell on them."

"You're right, I guess," Trailbreaker acceded. "I just wish I didn't feel like such a _burden_ all the time. If I wasn't such a drain on our resources, I wouldn't feel so bad about the rest of it."

"Maybe I could come up with something," he offered. "I can't turn you into Bumblebee, but I bet I could work out a way to increase your efficiency a little. There's got to be a way to reduce your drag coefficient from air friction, or lower your engine-speed to wheel-speed ratio. Or maybe we could make you lighter – I could probably work out a way to transfer some of your non-vital components into subspace when you transform–"

He trailed off when he noticed the way the other mech was staring at him.

"What?" he asked. "I won't blow you up, I promise."

"You…you'd do that for me?"

"Sure," he said with an agreeable shrug. "You said it'd make you feel better, and, well I kind of feel like I owe you one. I was feeling pretty down before, but _this_," he gestured to the darkening vista, "was really nice. I feel a lot better now, and I have you to thank for it."

It was true. He hadn't realized it until the moment the words left his vocalizer, but he truly was _grateful_ to the other 'Bot. In the past few joors, he hadn't spent so much as an astrosecond thinking about…that. His somber mood had lifted, and he'd actually begun to relax, allowing his old confidence to re-emerge.

And he had _Trailbreaker_ to thank for it.

It wasn't just that Trailbreaker was a friendly, easygoing sort of mech. Even Trailbreaker's _problems_ – his concerns about his energy demands, his feelings of inadequacy in regards to Hound – even _those_ helped to lift Wheeljack's spirits and lighten his spark. He'd been programmed to solve problems, after all. It felt good to be presented with one he could actually _fix_.

Trailbreaker was still staring at him, his expression a mixture of awe and disbelief.

And gratitude.

"Thank you," Trailbreaker said softly. "Really. I'm – I just…_really_. Thank you."

"No problem," he replied, vocal indicators flashing brightly. "And thank _you_"

x.x.x.x.x

Upon returning to the _Ark_, he'd bade farewell to Trailbreaker and gone back to his lab to resume his work on the detection panels. The much-needed break had granted him a fresh perspective, and he'd made several improvements on the design.

By morning, they were ready.

He'd commed Optimus Prime, Ironhide and Red Alert at the start of his shift to inform them, and within a breem or two, virtually every 'Bot on duty was busy installing them throughout the base.

He was giving Prime a demonstration, proudly explaining how the panels functioned, when Cliffjumper interrupted to announce that a call had just come in on Teletraan-1.

He couldn't help sneering a little as he listened to Dr. Fujiama boasting about his new invention. Wheeljack didn't like the gloating human's condescending manner, or the way Fujiama had stolen his spotlight, especially considering the detection panels were the first thing he'd invented since –

He was just plain _rude_, is all. Wheeljack didn't like him.

It wasn't as if the scientist's robot would be anything _special_. Wheeljack had seen some of the so-called "robots" the humans used, and they were exceedingly simple things, well below the level of even the most rudimentary Cybertronian drone. Most were only capable of performing a single function – and an incredibly _basic_ function, at that – over and over again. They couldn't perform multiple complex tasks, and they certainly weren't sentient, let alone sapient.

So Dr. Fujiama's claim that his invention was "the greatest robot ever created by man" was about as impressive, in human terms, as saying "the greatest block tower ever built by a toddler." And he wanted the Autobots to _guard_ it? Why send a fleet of tanks to guard a toaster?

Wheeljack wasn't sure if Optimus was genuinely curious about Dr. Fujiama's invention or just trying to be polite, but either way the result was the same; Prime accepted the doctor's request, and they were all ordered to abandon installing the remainder of Wheeljack's detection panels in favor of piling on board Skyfire to fly out to Japan.

To guard a primitive Earth robot. So the Decepticons wouldn't steal it.

Why would they even _want_ it?

He said as much to Ratchet when he found himself standing next to the medic while the other 'Bots positioned themselves about the (thankfully high-ceilinged) auditorium, taking up guard posts at each of the doors.

"It does seem like a pretty silly assignment," Ratchet agreed. "But I guess we'll see what all the fuss is about soon enough. Dr. Fujiama's doohickey is under that drape."

Wheeljack glanced toward the stage in the direction Ratchet had indicated. "If it walks, it probably needs a long extension cord," he said.

Ratchet chuckled, "I wonder if batteries are included."

He snickered. "When they turn it on, it'll probably blow the lights," he said.

Unfortunately Optimus Prime chose that moment to walk by and overheard his prediction. "We're here to guard the robot, not make jokes at its expense," he said reprovingly.

Wheeljack suppressed a sigh. Maybe the humor _had_ been a little mean-spirited, but it had felt good to swap jokes with Ratchet again, like everything was normal. For a moment, it had been just like old times.

Now that moment was over.

The two of them fell into a chagrined silence, refraining from making any additional comments as Dr. Fujiama appeared onstage and unveiled the new robot.

Wheejack had to admit, it _did_ look better than he'd expected it to. Sparkplug's attempt with "Autobot X" hadn't been nearly so…aesthetic. He suspected a lot of the impressed reactions from the other 'Bots were due to the fact that Fujiama's robot was a femme, and bore a striking resemblance to a pleasure-drone, besides. He highly doubted it was because she was such a technological marvel.

He was kind of tempted to _tell_ the good doctor that; see how boastful he was after he learned his creation looked like the Cybertronian equivalent of a human sex toy.

Beside him, he heard Ratchet suppressing a snicker; it was obvious Ratchet was thinking the same thing. They exchanged an amused look before returning their attention to the stage, where Dr. Fujiama was attempting to explain how his robot ninja would benefit mankind when ninjas had historically served primarily as assassins.

That was when the Decepticons attacked.

They blasted through the door that Trailbreaker had been guarding, taking him out before he could erect his force field. Rumble and Frenzy had charged in first, immediately putting their pile-drivers to work to weaken the structure of the building. Laserbeak soon joined them, and their combined efforts triggered a panicked stampede of fleeing humans.

Megatron showed up next, followed by Soundwave. The ensuing battle was fast and brutal, and by the time it was over, the ninjabot had been stolen and several of the Autobots had been damaged. Prime had been shot by Megatron, as had Bluestreak, taking a shot meant for Optimus. Prowl had taken a hit from Laserbeak, Soundwave had shot Brawn, and Ironhide had been half-crushed by falling support beams when the roof collapsed.

Surveying the damage as Optimus Prime apologized to Dr. Fujiama, Wheeljack exchanged another look with Ratchet. This time it wasn't amused.

They had their work cut out for them.


	7. Association

**Title: **After Atlantis  
**Obligatory Disclaimer:** I don't own Transformers. This chapter contains references to the G1 cartoon episode _"Enter the Nightbird." _Additional episodes will be referenced in future chapters.  
**Warnings: **PTSD angst, references to rape.

**Chapter 7: Association**

"Damage appears to be minor," Wheeljack said, completing his brief assessment of Prowl's injuries. "Must have only been a glancing hit. Your regenerative systems should have you back to optimal in about a joor."

Prowl nodded. "Thank you, Wheeljack."

Ratchet had set up a kind of triage in Skyfire's hold during the flight back from Japan, and together he and Wheeljack were working to ensure that each of the damaged mechs received a thorough examination. The most critical or potentially spark-threatening injuries were addressed immediately with field patches and other stopgap emergency repairs, while less urgent or more complex repairs were left to be handled back at the base, where they had access to a fully equipped repair bay.

Wheeljack glanced over to where Ratchet was busy working on Bluestreak. The gunner had taken a direct hit from Megatron's fusion cannon, and that was _never_ a good thing. The Decepticon leader had gotten Prime, too, but the matrix-bearer could walk away unharmed from an attack that might extinguish the spark of another mech, and Optimus wouldn't allow Ratchet to tend to him until he was certain Bluestreak was all right, anyway.

In fact Prime was currently hovering nearby, offering soft words of encouragement to the young mech while Ratchet worked. It was clear – to Wheeljack, anyway – that Ratchet was very concerned about whatever injuries he was dealing with, because he had no sharp reprimand to offer Optimus for still being on his feet.

He moved on to Brawn, inquiring about what hurt and where. The minibot had been unable to transform for the trip back to the airport where Skyfire awaited them, and had had to accept a lift from Ratchet. A quick examination confirmed what Wheeljack already suspected – Brawn's transform relays were completely shot. The injury was in no way spark-threatening, but repairing transform circuitry was touchy work. It would have to wait until they got back to the _Ark_.

After another glance at Ratchet, he moved on to Ironhide. The security officer was a mess. It was a testament to Ironhide's fortitude that he was still online and moving after having what amounted to an entire building fall on top of him. Like Brawn, most of the damage was not spark-threatening, but would require extensive, time-consuming repairs. Wheeljack clamped off a few torn energon lines and dampened Ironhide's pain receptors to make the old warrior more comfortable. It was all he could do, for now.

Another check on Ratchet revealed that the medic had finally finished with Bluestreak and had moved on to Trailbreaker. Trailbreaker's injuries must have been serious; as he approached to offer his assistance Wheeljack realized that Ratchet was in the process of taking the defense strategist offline.

"Bad?" he asked quietly, a pang of worry shooting through his spark. True to his word, he'd come up with several workable ideas for modifications that would address Trailbreaker's fuel consumption issues, and he hated to think he might never get to implement them. When Wheeljack had offered to look into the problem for him, Trailbreaker had seemed so…_grateful_.

"He'll be all right," Ratchet replied. "But he's going to need some delicate repair work on his communications array once we get back to the _Ark_. The explosion all but destroyed it."

Wheeljack cocked his helm quizzically. "So why did you–?"

"Take him offline?" Ratchet finished for him. "I know my patients. Trailbreaker's the type to dwell on this sort of thing if he's given too much time to think about it. It's better if he stays offline until I can take a closer look. Less misery for him, less aggravation for me."

Recalling Trailbreaker's insecurities about his usefulness, and the tone of self-loathing in which he had expressed them, Wheeljack nodded with understanding. Trailbreaker's main contribution to the Autobot cause was his force field and his ability to track, transmit and jam communications. Of the two, only the latter required minimal resources to utilize. Given his fears of being a burden due to his energy demands, it seemed unlikely Trailbreaker would take the news of even a temporary loss of what he regarded as his only _useful_ ability with his usual good humor.

"Brawn's transform relays need a lot of attention, and Ironhide's going to need major repairs, but neither of them is in any danger of deactivation," Wheeljack reported. "What about Bluestreak?"

"Better than I expected," Ratchet responded. "Some of his critical circuit pathways got fried, but once I had that under control, I took a look at the rest of the damage, and it's not bad. He should be up and around in no time. He'd better not push it, though, or he'll answer to me."

He nodded, "And Prime?"

"My next stop," Ratchet replied wearily. "Now that everyone else has been attended to, maybe he'll finally let me take a look at him."

Wheeljack nodded again, "Good luck." He started to turn away, intent on taking a seat and powering down for the remainder of the trip to conserve his energy for the repair job that awaited them upon their return to the _Ark_, but Ratchet's hand on his arm halted him.

"How are _you_ holding up?" Ratchet asked quietly.

The soft words hit him like a blow.

He'd hoped no one had noticed the way he'd frozen up during the battle when Starscream appeared, but evidently Ratchet had. With all the injured mechs to occupy his attention, Wheeljack hadn't really had time to analyze his reaction, but he couldn't deny that he'd had one. Hearing that shrill, smug, _hateful_ voice again had shaken him to the core.

"I'm fine," he said.

Ratchet gave him a dubious look, one with a healthy dose of "we'll talk about this later" implicit in it, but made no further comment, opting instead to square his shoulders and tackle the challenge of pinning down Optimus Prime long enough to assess his condition. Based on Ratchet's determined expression, Wheeljack surmised that Optimus would soon be undergoing a very thorough exam, even if Ratchet had to _sit_ on him to get it.

Cycling a sigh through his intakes, he found an unoccupied seat in the shuttle and settled into it, powering down his systems.

x.x.x.x.x

He was jolted back to awareness by Skyfire's voice echoing through the cabin.

"We're nearly home, guys! I just caught a glimpse of the California coastline," the shuttle announced cheerfully.

Wheeljack slowly eased back into his seat, trying to will the tension out of his servos and ignore the frantic pulsing of his spark. Did Skyfire have to sound so slagging _chipper_? Normally he liked the quiet, placid scientist, but right now he wanted to throttle him.

_I guess he's not_ always so _cheerful_, Wheeljack thought. _I remember he was very depressed back when he first joined us. Trying to come to terms with everything that had changed while he'd been in stasis, everything he'd lost – Cybertron, his career, his part–_

_Starscream_.

Skyfire's partner, back when he'd been an explorer, had been _Starscream_.

They'd been colleagues. No, not colleagues, they'd been _friends_.

Maybe _more_ than friends.

The energon in Wheeljack's tanks gave an uncomfortable lurch at the realization: He was currently sitting inside the hold of a mech who'd been friends, possibly even interfaced, with _Starscream_.

Unlike him, Skyfire had probably been willing. He'd probably even enjoyed it.

_You enjoyed it too._

Primus, he was going to purge again. _Not now,_ he thought desperately. _Not here, not now, not in front of everyone! We're almost there, just hang on..._

Clenching his fists and offlining his optics, he poured every ounce of his will into staying in control, holding perfectly still, and keeping his processor utterly blank.

He remained that way until they finally touched down outside the _Ark_.

x.x.x.x.x

He managed to disembark from the shuttle with some semblance of calm indifference.

From there it was straight to repair bay, even though he would have preferred to flee to the shelter of his personal quarters or his lab. In the midst of the bustle and confusion of getting all the injured 'Bots inside and situated onto repair berths, he was able to slip into one of the private rooms – ostensibly to retrieve some tools – and collect himself somewhat.

No longer being on board Skyfire helped. Being in the familiar surroundings of the repair bay helped, too. After a few kliks, he emerged to find Ratchet had already released Prowl and Prime – Prowl had left with Spike; Optimus was still hanging around – and was presently finishing up the remaining repairs on Bluestreak.

Brawn was next on Ratchet's list, so Wheeljack went to check on Trailbreaker and Ironhide.

"Take care of him first, I can wait," Ironhide told him as he approached.

"Forget it, Ironhide," Trailbreaker argued good-naturedly. "You're next, no trying to get out of it. You look like the bottom half of a twelve-car pileup."

Trailbreaker had been brought back online so that he could walk to the repair bay under his own power rather than being carried, and for the moment seemed to be in a fairly jovial mood. Based on that Wheeljack concluded that Trailbreaker had either not been told the extent of his injuries, or as Ratchet had predicted, hadn't had sufficient time to dwell on them.

He started in on the repairs, beginning with Ironhide in spite of the veteran warrior's protests.

As he'd predicted during his initial assessment, the repairs took a great deal of time, but at least they kept his processor occupied. Bored by the wait, the two patients began chatting over his helm as he worked.

The first topic of discussion, naturally, was the ninja-bot. Wheeljack stubbornly tuned out the admiring comments praising Dr. Fujiama's creation.

Eventually they moved on to rehashing the battle. Wheeljack paid careful attention to that part of their discussion, tension building up in his servos – had they noticed his reaction the way Ratchet had? Were they going to question him about it? If they did, what excuse would he give?

"_Ouch!_ Watch it, Wheeljack!" Ironhide protested.

"Sorry," he replied sheepishly. In his distraction, he'd moved on to a new section without dampening the sensor nodes first. He made the necessary adjustment and resumed his work, his circuits heating with embarrassment.

To his profound relief, no mention was made of his role in the battle. The main topic of interest seemed to be the way Optimus had hauled off and decked Megatron, mere astroseconds after the Decepticon leader had shot him. Wheeljack had to admit, that _had_ been pretty impressive.

From there the conversation took on a more humorous tone as the two 'Bots began cheerfully swapping jokes and observations about their longtime foes.

"How come the 'Cons are always bustin' through walls, anyway? Don't they know what doors are for?"

"I know, right? It's like they're afraid of them or something!"

"I think they just like blowin' stuff up."

"Megatron needs to work on his villain banter," Trailbreaker said. "I mean, 'Time to disappear, Mirage'? That's real original. I'm sure 'Raj has never heard _that_ one before."

Wheeljack couldn't help but chuckle at that, even though Ironhide's laughter was making it slightly more difficult to work on him. He hadn't realized Trailbreaker was such a funny mech…

"And did you hear what Starscream called us?" Trailbreaker continued. "'_Autoboobs?_' I'd have fallen over laughing, if I hadn't been on the floor already. He must be trying out some new Earth insults."

"That's nothin'," Ironhide scoffed, "I remember one time Screamer called me 'Rustypants.'"

Trailbreaker frowned, cocking his helm in confusion. "But…we don't _wear_ pants."

"Yeah, I know!" Ironhide replied, and both mechs roared with laughter.

Wheeljack wasn't laughing. At the mention of Starscream's name he'd stiffened, his tension level skyrocketing. He knew he should make an effort to laugh along with them, but he was too busy trying to keep his hands from shaking long enough to complete Ironhide's repairs to muster a convincing response.

"All right you two jokers, pipe down," Ratchet called over grouchily. "This is a repair bay, not a comedy club."

Ironhide and Trailbreaker quieted, exchanging guilty looks. Ratchet turned back to Brawn, resuming his work on the minibot. Optimus spoke to Brawn reassuringly, telling him that Ratchet was almost finished. Wheeljack cycled a long draft of air through his intakes and tried to calm his pulsing spark.

That was when the lights went out.

Half a klik later, the alarm sounded.

x.x.x.x.x

There was an intruder in the Autobot base.

Prime and Bluestreak left the repair bay to investigate with Ratchet's nod of approval, leaving them behind to complete the repairs on the remaining 'Bots. They'd barely gotten started when the others returned with the startling news that the intruder was in fact Fujiama's ninja robot, and that she had successfully eluded capture and fled the _Ark_.

The mechs who were able left to pursue and retrieve the scientist's wayward experiment. By then Ratchet had released Brawn, so the minibot went with them. Only Ironhide and Trailbreaker remained behind.

Ratchet left to check the status of Teletraan-1 and perform any repairs that might be needed. Ironhide went with him, overriding Wheeljack's protest that he wasn't finished with a gruff, "You can pound out the rest o' my dents later, Wheeljack."

Since Ratchet made no objection, Wheeljack let him go without further argument.

After the two 'Bots departed, Wheeljack looked to Trailbreaker. "I guess you can go too, if you want. I can't do your repairs in the dark, and there's no sense hanging around here waiting for Ratchet to get Teletraan-1 up and running again. Who knows how long that'll take?"

"I don't mind waiting," Trailbreaker replied agreeably. "It's not like I've got anywhere else to be."

"Suit yourself," he said, turning away to gather up the tools he'd used on Ironhide. "No chrome off my chassis."

A part of him really wanted Trailbreaker to leave. Another part was very uneasy about being left alone in the dark. He wished Ratchet would come back. Somehow that would be better.

"Are you all right?"

Wheeljack flinched internally. He'd come to dread that particular question. "Sure," he replied as blithely as he could manage. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"You seem…kind of down," Trailbreaker said.

"I'm fine. I just need some recharge." _Easier said than done_.

"You don't have to stick around on my account; go and get some rest. The doc can patch me up when he gets back."

Wheeljack thought about it.

"Yeah, all right," he said, putting his tools away. He started to leave, but stopped halfway to the door. "Stop by my lab later when you have some time free," he invited. "I've got some ideas on modifications we can make to increase your efficiency." He hesitated a moment, then added, "That is, if you still want to."

"Absolutely," Trailbreaker said, brightening noticeably. "I'll definitely do that. Thanks, Wheeljack!"

He shrugged. "No problem."


	8. Alienation

**Title: **After Atlantis  
**Obligatory Disclaimer:** I don't own Transformers.  
**Warnings: **PTSD angst, references to rape, sexual situations.

**Chapter 8: Alienation**

"I can't function like this," he muttered to the ceiling.

_Why did it have to keep happening?_

He'd tried again, really _tried_. He'd tried to just lie back, power down, and slip into recharge the way he had any of an infinite number of times over the span of countless vorns, but within a few joors, he'd jerked back online, his processor reeling with echoes and his internal fans cycling merrily away.

He was utterly disgusted with himself.

And he was _tired_.

Primus, he was so, _so_ tired. What little recharge he'd gotten felt like none at all.

At least he hadn't purged his tanks this time.

After half a breem his cooling fans finally cut off, but his circuits still hummed with a lingering charge. It would be easy enough to take care of. All he had to do was –

_No_, he thought fiercely. _I'm not doing that_.

"I need an inhibitor," he declared to the empty room. "Ratchet be damned, I _need_ one."

He checked his internal chronometer. It was late, well into the small hours of the Earth night. If there was _ever_ a good time to sneak into the repair bay to steal restricted equipment, it was now.

He rose from his berth and left his quarters quickly, before he could talk himself out of it.

x.x.x.x.x

The repair bay was dark and deserted.

Wheeljack couldn't decide if that was a good thing or a bad thing. Was he really going to do this? If he got caught, he'd be so slagged. Even if he didn't, it was _wrong_. He couldn't plead ignorance; he was intimately associated with the workings of the repair bay. He knew the rules. He knew those rules had been made for a reason.

Hand on the drawer that housed the device he coveted, he hesitated, a war waging within him between duty and desperation. The hand gripping the handle shook. Desperation was winning.

"'Jack?"

_Oh, slag._

It took an astrosecond to pry his hand free, it was clenched so tightly, but he managed it, and turned to face the puzzled medic standing silhouetted in the doorway.

"Hey, Ratch," he greeted him guiltily.

"Thought you'd be deep in recharge by now," Ratchet said, still looking puzzled, but now with a dash of worry thrown in. "Trailbreaker said you looked wiped out. Everything okay?"

"Sure," he replied with a shrug. "Everything's fine."

"Was there something you needed?" Ratchet asked, coming further into the darkened room.

Wheeljack fidgeted uncomfortably, rubbing his neck cables in an obvious show of nerves. "Nah, not really," he muttered.

Ratchet drew closer, pinning him with a long, probing look. Wheeljack fidgeted some more under the intense scrutiny.

"Did you come to see me, 'Jack?" Ratchet asked quietly.

Wheeljack stiffened, startled. His processor whirled. What should he say? If he said no, Ratchet would ask what the real reason was. If he confessed, Ratchet might just give him the inhibitor out of pity.

…or he might start yelling and throwing things.

"Yeah," he whispered, vocal indicators barely flickering in the dimness. "I…I guess I did."

Ratchet smiled. It was soft, sad, fond sort of smile, both like and unlike Ratchet. "You could have come sooner, you know," he said. "Primus, you can be so _stubborn_ sometimes."

The complaint was an old one, the tone it was spoken in familiar and reassuring. "But that's why you love me, right Ratch?" he asked teasingly.

Ratchet stared at him for another long moment, his expression unreadable. "C'mon," he said finally. "We can talk in my office. I've got some high-grade stashed in my desk. Strictly for medical purposes, of course."

"Right," Wheeljack chuckled. Then his processor caught up with the rest of him. "Wait, talk?" A sudden flash of panic gripped him. "Talk about what?"

Ratchet's easy smile faltered. "You know what," he said. "Isn't that why you came?"

"I – I don't know," he stammered. Had it been? Had it really been the desire for the inhibitor that brought him here, or had he come secretly hoping to run into Ratchet? Was that why'd he'd hesitated when he could have just taken it and run? Or was he just a liar and a thief?

He cycled his vents in a harsh sigh, turning away from his friend. "I don't know. I don't even know what I'm _doing_ anymore," he said, his vocalizer crackling with frustration. "I just – I just want everything to be _normal_ again! Primus, is that so much to ask?"

The gentle hand Ratchet laid on his shoulder-strut was surprisingly comforting. "You just need time," he said soothingly. "Give it time, 'Jack."

Maybe it was because he was so utterly exhausted, or due to the stubborn charge still clinging to his circuits, or perhaps some bizarre a combination of both, but to Wheeljack that light, simple touch felt…good. Better than it should have.

A _lot_ better.

He suddenly found himself thinking about Ratchet in a way he never had before, or at least in a way he never had before Ratchet's sensor-ghost had started paying nightly visits to his CPU. He realized with a start that following the scan, Ratchet's sensor-echo had actually _replaced_ Starscream's, leaving only the memory of the Seeker's voice and touch behind to plague his recharge.

…what if he could replace _them_, too?

He had in part blamed his own…_prudishness_, for lack of a better word – for what had happened to him. If he'd been more like Ratchet, more willing to treat interfacing like it was no big deal, he wouldn't have been such easy prey for Starscream, or been so readily taken advantage of. He might have been able to remain in control of himself, in spite of the Decepticon's efforts.

To be honest, if he _had_ to pick someone on the _Ark_ to uplink with, Ratchet struck him as a pretty good choice. After all, he knew Ratchet, _trusted_ him. Pit, they'd all but interfaced once already. It wasn't like there would be any nasty surprises.

Not to mention the fact that a decent overload might actually be enough to knock him offline for a few joors.

There were more reasons to go ahead and _do_ it than there were _not_ to.

The rapid flurry of thoughts raced through his processor in the course of mere astroseconds. Ratchet was still standing behind him, his hand on Wheeljack's shoulder-strut, completely unaware of the unexpected detour they'd taken.

He took a moment to compose himself, to gather his thoughts together. For a moment he hesitated, uncertain. Should he _really_ be contemplating this?

_To the Pit with it, _he thought_. _

He half-turned toward Ratchet, away from the hand on his shoulder-strut so that the arm it was attached to ended up wrapped around him in a semi-embrace.

Then he extended his energy field.

As field flares went, it wasn't anything that could be classified as brash or presumptuous, but neither was it tentative. Not a demand, but a solid, inquiring _push_.

A clear, unmistakable invitation.

Ratchet's intakes hitched in surprise. "What are you doing, 'Jack?" he asked quietly.

"What's it feel like I'm doing?" he responded in a low, suggestive tone, emitting a second, more insistent pulse and grabbing Ratchet's free hand to run his fingers over the highly tuned sensors lining the palm.

Ratchet backed away, releasing his shoulder-strut and tugging his captive hand free from Wheeljack's grasp. "I mean, _why_ are you doing it?" he asked.

Wheeljack turned to face him. "Isn't it obvious?" he said. "C'mon, Ratch, what's the deal? It's not like you haven't done this before."

"Not with you," Ratchet replied gravely. "Not like this."

"What difference does it make?" He reached for Ratchet's hand again, but Ratchet flinched back, once more stepping out of his reach. "Slaggit, Ratchet–!"

"No, 'Jack," Ratchet said firmly. "I'm not letting you do this. Not to me, not to yourself."

Wheeljack couldn't believe his audials. Had his best friend just _turned him down?_

"What is this?" he asked, vocal indicators strobing in the darkness. "Some kind of sick joke?"

"No," Ratchet said quietly. "It's not."

"Well then wh – what the _frag_, Ratch? I can't believe you – I thought you were my _friend!_"

"I am," Ratchet replied sadly. "That's why I can't let you do this."

"Why the Pit not?" he demanded.

"Because I know it's not what you really want."

"Don't patronize me, Ratchet, I'm not some stupid sparkling!" Wheeljack retorted heatedly. "I _do_ want this! I _need_ this, and you're telling me _no?_" He huffed in exasperation. "Since when did you get so choosy? You never needed an excuse to swap paint before; why are you stalling now?"

A chilling revelation overtook him then, one that sucked all the heat out of his anger, interrupting his tirade, defusing his temper, deflating his ire.

"It's because it's _me_, isn't it?" he whispered.

"'Jack –" Ratchet began gently.

"No," he said, raising a hand to cut off the apology. "No, it's fine. I get it. You don't want some 'Con's _leftovers_." He laughed, low and bitter. "It's okay; I wouldn't either."

He turned to leave, shoulders slumped in defeat.

A hand on his arm stayed him. "'Jack, listen to me–" Ratchet began.

"Don't," he interrupted him, not turning around. His vocalizer made the word come out like a plea. "Just…don't. I'm going now." After a moment's hesitation, he added, "I'm sorry for – I'm sorry. Don't worry; it won't happen again."

The grip on his arm tightened, and he was spun violently around. Ratchet's optics burned incandescently in the dimness, blazing with some intense emotion Wheeljack couldn't readily identify, but which seemed to be at least two parts anger.

"Listen to me, you little glitch," Ratchet hissed at him fiercely. "This has nothing to do with fragging _Starscream!_ This has everything to do with _you_ and _me_. Don't you _dare_ walk out of here thinking otherwise!"

He stared at him for a long time before he finally spoke. "So it _is_ because it's me."

"Dammit, Wheeljack!" Ratchet exclaimed, shoving him back roughly. "You stupid, clueless – do you know how _long_ I've – _Slaggit_!" he turned abruptly and stalked to the opposite end of the repair bay, ranting and muttering the whole way. "Fragging – of all the – can't believe – _ever_ get my hands on Starscream – take him apart – _piece_ by _piece–!_"

Wheeljack picked himself up from where he'd fallen after stumbling from Ratchet's shove. Ratchet was still busy venting his anger, and had worked up quite a head of steam. Soon the tools would start flying.

He opted to slip out quietly before that happened.

x.x.x.x.x

Wheeljack made his way back to his lab, moving briskly down the corridor with an increasingly angry, ground-eating stride.

_Ratchet had turned him down._

He couldn't believe it. His _best friend_ had turned him down!

He'd never seriously considered interfacing with Ratchet before tonight, but he'd always sort of assumed that if he _did_ make an overture, Ratchet would welcome it. Ratchet had never been terribly uptight about that sort of thing. As long as the timing wasn't wholly inappropriate – say, in a repair bay full of severely damaged mechs, or on a battlefield – Ratchet was the sort to seize the moment. He always had been.

…except with Wheeljack.

He'd never taken offense to his exclusion, even after he'd noticed it. Ratchet was his best friend. That was good enough for Wheeljack. If Ratchet wasn't interested in 'facing with him, Wheeljack was fine with that. If Ratchet _was_, he was fine with that, too. If Ratchet had asked _him_, he wouldn't have turned him down, told him _no_. It was _Ratchet_, after all.

He'd always assumed Ratchet felt the same way. The possibility that his advances might be _rejected_ hadn't even occurred to him.

He realized now that it should have.

_Obviously_ it wasn't just a simple lack of interest that had kept Ratchet away for so long. It was something more than that, some larger reason why Wheeljack didn't just rank low on Ratchet's list of potential partners, but had in fact been crossed off entirely.

His first thought was that it was because of Starscream, but Ratchet had said it wasn't.

Which meant it was _him_. Something about Wheeljack, something he'd done, maybe, long before Starscream had ever entered the picture, had made him anathema to Ratchet. Ratchet had all but admitted it.

Which made his exclusion much more…_personal_.

_Frag him,_ Wheeljack thought bitterly.

It probably _was_ because of Starscream, and Ratchet just didn't want to admit it. Ratchet hadn't been shy about jacking into him to run the scan, so why would he hesitate now? Sure, that hadn't been an interface _technically_, but in terms of the mechanics, it amounted to the same thing.

Anyway, he'd come up _clean_. Whatever was stopping Ratchet, it wasn't the fear of picking up some Decepticon virus from Wheeljack's CPU. That, he could have forgiven. An aversion to foreign code was precisely why he avoided uplinking with mechs he didn't know well himself; he could hardly blame Ratchet for sharing that attitude. But that clearly _wasn't_ what Ratchet was afraid of.

But what else was there? What was it about an uplink with Wheeljack – a _real_ one – that was so different from what they'd already done? Apart from the lack of overload, of course.

The answer struck him like a thunderbolt. _A true uplink goes both ways._

It wasn't that Ratchet didn't want to access his CPU. It was that he didn't want Wheeljack gaining access to _his_.

Didn't want Wheeljack to find out what Ratchet _really_ thought of him.

He halted in midstride, nearly in sight of the door to his lab, his shoulder-struts drooping. "Frag, Ratch…" he sighed reproachfully.

For the second time in as many days, Wheeljack felt like he'd lost his best friend.


	9. Ambush

**Title:** After Atlantis  
**Obligatory Disclaimer:** I don't own Transformers.  
**Warnings: **PTSD angst, references to rape, sexual situations.  
**Author's Note:** Thanks to everyone who read and reviewed – your comments help inspire me to stick with this monster. This chapter's a bit short, because the next one ran long.

**Chapter 9: Ambush**

He'd spent the rest of the night tinkering in his lab.

Recharging was out, so he'd decided to have another go at creating a device that would mimic the effects of a processor inhibitor.

He wasn't having much success. He didn't really have the right equipment to make one, and even if he had, even if he'd been able to come up with something, the thought of actually _using_ it gave him pause. One minor miscalculation somewhere in the schematic, and he could end up frying his CPU.

As desperate as he was, that was just too much to risk.

So he'd scrapped the idea, retrieved the energon cube he'd stashed in his subspace, and simply sat and brooded, sipping occasionally.

He still couldn't believe Ratchet had rejected him. That _stung_. The realization that Ratchet might not feel as strongly about their friendship as Wheeljack did, that perhaps he never _had_, stung even more.

It was also incredibly embarrassing. Under normal circumstances, Wheeljack didn't make overtures toward other mechs unless he was reasonably confident the desire was mutual. Ratchet hadn't given any such indication of interest, yet Wheeljack had bulled on ahead regardless.

How _stupid_ must he have looked, flaring his field at Ratchet like that? It was _beyond_ pathetic. Ratchet had even said as much, called him stupid and clueless.

At least he wasn't on duty again until the following day. If there were no injuries, he might even be able to avoid the repair bay entirely. He didn't relish the thought of working side by side with Ratchet again after tonight. It was bound to be awkward.

He cycled a sigh through his intakes. Things between himself and Ratchet had been strained enough already, what with…everything that had happened.

Now they were going to be unbearable.

Finishing his impromptu energon break, Wheeljack got to his feet. He was in the process of dispersing the empty cube when the wave of depression hit.

He was _alone_.

He'd thought that was what he wanted – to be left alone. To have no one looking at him, evaluating his behavior, asking if he was okay, wanting him to talk...

No company. No questions.

No _friends_.

He sank to the floor, suddenly weak with despair.

He missed Ratchet. He missed Sparkplug and Bumblebee. He missed the way he used to be with them, easygoing, relaxed, and confident.

He missed the old Wheeljack.

x.x.x.x.x

"Okay…just one more quick adjustment and we'll be ready to test it out," he said.

Trailbreaker's query ping had interrupted what had been shaping up to be a full-blown pity party. Wheeljack had been grateful for the interruption, not to mention the distraction Trailbreaker's ensuing visit provided. They'd spent the past few joors in his lab, first discussing and then implementing what they deemed the most promising of his ideas to increase Trailbreaker's fuel efficiency.

"Thanks again for doing this," Trailbreaker said with sincerity. "I know I keep saying that, but I'm really grateful, and I just don't know what else _to_ say. It really means a lot to me."

"Like I said, it's no problem," he reassured him. He thought about adding to that, about commenting on Trailbreaker's uncanny timing, on the way he always seemed to show up to offer a distraction or an emotional boost just when Wheeljack needed it most, but decided against it. Trailbreaker would probably ask him to explain what he meant by that, and that would involve a bit more self-disclosure than he was comfortable with. So he let the statement lie.

"You really think this will lower my energy consumption?" Trailbreaker asked again.

"By roughly fifteen to thirty percent, yes," he replied, more amused than annoyed by the repetition. "At least in theory. We'll have to run some tests once I get the mods in place, see what the readings say."

"How much longer?" That question, too, had become quite familiar.

"Just a klik," he replied, tightening one last coupling and surveying the results with satisfaction. "_There_. Done."

Trailbreaker looked startled, almost apprehensive. "I don't _feel_ any different. What happens now?"

"Now we run those tests I mentioned."

Wheeljack led him over to where he'd set up the equipment needed to review the results of the modifications, and began making the necessary connections with brisk efficiency, plugging the testing devices into the various medical access points located throughout Trailbreaker's frame.

Trailbreaker's intakes hitched when Wheeljack made the third connection, a brief, bright spark leaping between his fingers and Trailbreaker's secondary medial access port.

"Sorry," they said almost simultaneously.

Trailbreaker laughed nervously. "You really think–" he began.

"Yes," he interrupted, without rancor. "By fifteen to thirty percent."

"I'm sorry," Trailbreaker apologized with obvious chagrin. "It's not that I think you don't know what you're doing, it's just…I can hardly believe it myself."

"It's all right," he replied. "Ready?"

"As I'll ever be."

He initiated the test sequence.

x.x.x.x.x

The modifications had worked.

He'd run Trailbreaker through the entire sequence twice, asking him rev his engine at varying RPMs over a series of prearranged intervals, and Trailbreaker had passed with flying colors. The readouts indicated his fuel efficiency had increased by approximately twenty-eight percent, far exceeding Wheeljack's expectations.

His vocal indicators flashed brightly as he announced the results.

"You did it," Trailbreaker whispered in amazement. "You really did it."

"Yep," he replied cheerfully. The look of startled wonder on Trailbreaker's faceplate was immensely gratifying. "Your energy requirements are still a little on the high side compared to some of the smaller 'Bots, but they're on a par with most of the larger ones. It's a definite improvement."

"Thank you," Trailbreaker said sincerely, reaching to grip his shoulder strut. "_Really_. You don't know what this means to me."

A faint flicker of unease shivered through him in response to Trailbreaker's tone, to his touch, to their proximity, but he did his best to quash it. Trailbreaker certainly wasn't going to _hurt_ him, not after what Wheeljack had just done, not with the way Trailbreaker was looking at him, admiration and gratitude glowing in his optics. He was perfectly safe. There was no reason to get all..._twitchy_.

"Well," he said with more heartiness than he felt, "Let's get you unhooked." He began severing the connections between Trailbreaker and the test equipment, removing the plugs from each of the various ports in no particular order, feeling somewhat relieved that the activity gave him an excuse to avoid meeting Trailbreaker's optics.

He was leaning forward slightly to reach the final plug hooked into Trailbreaker's upper lateral access port when Trailbreaker grabbed hold of his free hand.

Wheeljack straightened, raising his helm to meet Trailbreaker's gaze, intending to question this curious action; as he did, he heard Trailbreaker whisper his name, in a voice even lower and deeper than usual.

"_Wheeljack_," Trailbreaker said.

That was when he felt Trailbreaker's energy field extending to brush lightly, almost teasingly against his own.

It wasn't anything like Starscream's had been, Wheeljack would realize later – Trailbreaker's approach was far more tentative, little more than a barely-there flicker, subtle and gently inquiring – but it was nevertheless the first field flare he had experienced since...it happened.

...which probably explained his downright _panicked_ response.

He flinched and recoiled, inadvertently yanking the last plug – still gripped tightly in his hand – free from Trailbreaker's port with far more force than was necessary or likely comfortable for the larger mech. In his haste he stumbled, jarring the nearby table and sending a number of tools tumbling to the floor with a loud, echoing crash.

Wheeljack gripped the edge of the table hard enough to dent his own fingers, fighting to stay in control, trying to will himself calm. He forced himself to raise his helm, to meet Trailbreaker's startled optics.

Trailbreaker hastily averted his gaze, looking utterly mortified. "S-sorry," he stammered. "I – sorry. I thought maybe – but you're not –" he shook his helm, huffing in disgust. "Of _course_ you're not. Primus, I'm so _stupid!_ You were just being _nice_…" he muttered.

Wheeljack just stared at him, his optics wide, his spark pulsing wildly, too stunned to reply.

"I'm really sorry," Trailbreaker babbled with chagrin as he backed toward the door. "I shouldn't have – I-I'll just get out of your way. Maybe later we could...no. No, I-I guess not. Um. Thanks. Sorry," he concluded awkwardly.

His departure from Wheeljack's lab was a hasty one.

x.x.x.x.x

It took him roughly half a breem to collect himself enough to move again.

Once the feeling of raw panic receded, embarrassment swept in to take its place. Trailbreaker's shy overture had been perfectly polite, even conservative by most standards, and Wheeljack had overreacted in the extreme. Primus knew what Trailbreaker thought of him now.

It had just been so..._unexpected_.

Wheeljack wasn't overly accustomed to being propositioned – he suspected it had something to do with the likelihood of explosions occurring in his immediate vicinity – but there had been occasions now and then when one mech or another had expressed an interest, and Wheeljack had always taken it in stride, accepting or declining as it suited him.

Until _now_.

His reaction had been instant, automatic. The unanticipated press of another mech's energy field against his own had triggered a reflexive, instinctive urge to _flee_. Even now that Trailbreaker had gone, even knowing he hadn't meant him any harm, Wheeljack still felt shaken and uneasy.

He returned to his quarters. His lab no longer felt secure.

Dimming the lights, stretching out on the berth and powering down his systems went a long way toward soothing his agitated CPU. He lay quietly for nearly a joor, unmoving, letting the tension slowly bleed from his servos.

As he calmed, he began to think.

He thought about his theory that the sensor ghosts Starscream had left behind in his processor might be replaced by other, more recent ones, ones from a mech he'd chosen.

He thought about Ratchet, and about how Ratchet had rejected him, and how that refusal had prevented Wheeljack from putting his theory to the test.

He thought about Trailbreaker, about his gratitude, his obvious interest, his calm, undemanding presence – a presence Wheeljack had found quite relaxing and congenial in their recent interactions.

Granted, Wheeljack didn't know Trailbreaker as well as Ratchet or some of the other 'Bots, but he'd never heard anyone speak _badly_ of him, and nothing in Trailbreaker's demeanor suggested he was anything other than what he appeared to be – mellow, easygoing, funny, a little insecure.

It occurred to Wheeljack that he could do a lot worse.

He checked his internal chronometer; it was getting on toward evening; the tests and modifications he'd performed on Trailbreaker had taken up the better part of the afternoon. Trailbreaker had mentioned while they were working that he was off-duty that day, so the odds were good he was still around, enjoying the remainder of his time off somewhere on the _Ark_.

A quick inquiry to Teletraan-1 provided Wheeljack with all the information he required.

He left his quarters quickly, before he could change his mind.


	10. Awkwardness

**Title: **After Atlantis**  
Obligatory Disclaimer: **I don't own Transformers.**  
Warnings: **PTSD angst, references to rape, inadvertent/ambiguous dub-con.**  
Author's Note: **Due to content, this chapter gets an additional trigger warning.

**Chapter 10: Awkwardness**

Trailbreaker seemed very surprised to receive his query ping.

Even after opening the door and finding Wheeljack standing outside, Trailbreaker still looked like he couldn't quite believe what his optics were scanning.

"...Wheeljack," he said after a brief, flustered silence.

"Hey," he greeted him blithely. "Mind if I come in?"

Trailbreaker looked absolutely astonished. "S-sure," he stammered, stepping back to admit him.

"Thanks," Wheeljack said as he entered, taking a moment to glance around.

Trailbreaker's quarters were...nice.

Trailbreaker appeared to be a fairly tidy mech, but not obsessively so; a small amount of personal clutter gave the room a lived-in look. The principal decorations were an assortment of Earth plants housed in small containers – one trailing leafy fronds over a hanging basket suspended from the ceiling in the far corner, several brightening the workstation with colorful flowers, a small, spiky cactus in a painted ceramic pot occupying the berthside table –

Distracted by the décor, he abruptly realized Trailbreaker was staring at him, clearly awaiting an explanation for Wheeljack's unexpected visit to his personal quarters.

"I came to apologize," he said simply.

Trailbreaker looked startled. "Apolo – to _me?_" he asked incredulously.

"Yeah," Wheeljack replied. "I was, uh, kind of surprised when you..." he trailed off, noting Trailbreaker's mortified expression. "It's just that I figured you were interested in Hound –"

"_Hound?_" Trailbreaker repeated, laughing a little. "No, not Hound. Not like _that_, anyway. I mean sure, we've hooked up before, but that was before he started seeing Mirage. And it was never, you know, _serious_. Just friends."

"Right," he said, nodding. "I figured it must be something like that, since you –"

"Yeah," Trailbreaker interrupted, still looking embarrassed. "So, uh…does this mean you _weren't_ offended?" he asked hopefully.

"Not at all," he replied, vocal indicators flashing agreeably. "Just..._surprised_."

"Oh," Trailbreaker said, looking faintly puzzled. "That's good."

"I, uh, don't really get a lot of offers," he admitted sheepishly.

"_Oh_," Trailbreaker said with greater understanding. "But you _have_–?"

"Oh, yeah," he replied quickly. "Sure, of course. It's just, you know...been a while."

_Starscream doesn't count,_ he told himself.

Trailbreaker asked with a low chuckle, "How long is 'a while'?"

_Ratchet doesn't count, either._

"...since Cybertron," he confessed reluctantly.

"_Wow_," Trailbreaker said, impressed. "That _is_ a while."

"Well, no one's really asked me," he replied, a touch defensively. "It's not like I've got mechs beating my door down. Crazy inventor, tends to blow himself up–"

"_I_ don't think you're crazy," Trailbreaker said softly, edging closer.

"Maybe just a little," Wheeljack whispered back as Trailbreaker closed on him, feeling a faint, familiar tingling sensation creeping through his circuitry

Was he really going to do this? _Could_ he do this?

A part of him wanted to. Another part was terrified.

This time, when Trailbreaker's energy field brushed inquiringly against his own, Wheeljack was ready for it. He suppressed a hitch in his intakes and responded with an answering pulse, matching Trailbreaker's intensity, synching their frequencies.

He managed not to flinch or stiffen when Trailbreaker reached for him, running eager hands over his frame.

_I can do this,_ he thought vehemently. _I _have_ to do this. I _need_ to do this_.

He steeled himself, and began touching Trailbreaker in return. Countless cycles of assisting Ratchet in the repair bay had left him with an excellent working knowledge of other build types, including a general awareness of the overall layout of each individual Autobot's sensor nets. If his memory files were accurate, Trailbreaker should have a particularly dense cluster of sensor nodes right..._there_.

The action elicited a startled moan and the soft ticking sound of Trailbreaker's internal cooling fans activating. The persistent fingers that had been probing hopefully along the seams in his armor suddenly redoubled their efforts.

"I'm no medic," Trailbreaker breathed urgently into his audial. "Tell me where."

Wheeljack hesitated, feeling strangely reluctant to reveal his own hot spots, to willingly hand over the keys to his chassis. To buy himself some time, he sent a series of slow, steady pulses through his energy field, letting them wash over Trailbreaker.

That, as it turned out, was a mistake.

Trailbreaker was quick to respond in kind, revving his engine and transmitting his own set of swift, heavy pulses. Wheeljack's cooling fans stuttered to life as his core temperature jumped, responding to the surge of pleasure sparking through his circuits. His fingers slipped, his knee-joints suddenly turning to water –

"Whoa there," Trailbreaker said as he caught and lowered him gently to the berth. "It really _has_ been a while for you, hasn't it?" he commented teasingly, stroking Wheeljack's chestplate affectionately. "Don't worry about getting there before me," he said reassuringly. "I know how it is. Just relax and leave the driving to me; I'll take care of you."

The next thing Wheeljack knew, he was lying on his back in Trailbreaker's berth, firm, insistent hands moving over his frame, an energy field pulsing hot and hard against his own, and it felt _good_, but at the same time, hideously familiar and _wrong_ –

A cold wave of terror washed over him, freezing his spark, chilling him to the core.

_It's happening again._

He couldn't move; he was immobilized by fear. He couldn't speak; his vocalizer refused to function.

_Stop_, he thought desperately, _Please stop._

But Trailbreaker didn't stop, didn't seem to notice Wheeljack's distress. He continued to explore his chassis with remarkable care and thoroughness, mapping every plane and angle with his hands, memorizing every dip and curve. Throughout it all, no word of protest escaped Wheeljack's recalcitrant vocalizer; the only sounds it produced were quiet whimpers and soft, helpless moans.

Too frightened to resist, Wheeljack could only cling to Trailbreaker's shoulder-struts, quivering in response to his touches, silently praying that Trailbreaker wouldn't opt to conclude the act by uplinking with him. Every astrosecond that passed was spent in dread of the next, gripped by the fearful certainty that at any moment, Trailbreaker would reach for his chestplate, open him up and plug himself in...

Primus saw fit to answer his prayer, or perhaps Trailbreaker didn't believe in uplinking during a first interface, but for whatever reason, Trailbreaker's efforts were limited to manipulating Wheeljack's energy field and stimulating the sensors covering his frame.

Regrettably, that was enough.

Wheeljack's inevitable overload filled him with a horrible despair.

x.x.x.x.x

The aftermath of their intimate encounter had been incredibly awkward, at least for Wheeljack.

Somehow he'd gotten through it. He'd managed to nod at all the appropriate intervals, to behave as if he'd enjoyed himself. He'd done everything he could to keep Trailbreaker from realizing anything was amiss, even thanked him for his generosity in not expecting him to reciprocate.

"You can make it up to me next time," Trailbreaker had replied genially.

_Next time_.

Wheeljack didn't want there to _be_ a next time.

But he didn't dare tell Trailbreaker that. Wheeljack had gone to _him_, not the other way around. Trailbreaker had been ready to accept his refusal, until Wheeljack had withdrawn it.

He'd _asked_ for it. He'd _invited_ it. He'd willingly accepted Trailbreaker's advances.

And when he changed his mind, he hadn't told Trailbreaker to stop.

Wheeljack paused long enough to enter the locking code at the door to his quarters, and then retreated inside. He sank onto the berth with a heavy sigh, overwhelmed by the enormity of the mess he'd gotten himself into.

He couldn't tell Trailbreaker he didn't want to interface with him again, not without coming across as fickle, or a liar. None of the usual excuses would suffice. He couldn't claim he wasn't interested; he'd already indicated that he _was_. He couldn't claim the encounter had been unsatisfying; he'd overloaded, Trailbreaker hadn't.

There was only one truly plausible reason Wheeljack could give as to why he was loath to pursue an intimate relationship with Trailbreaker, but unfortunately, that reason had everything to do with a recent incident involving Wheeljack and a certain Decepticon Second-in-Command.

He'd sooner be deactivated than reveal _that_ shameful secret.

So he'd had no choice but to agree to meet Trailbreaker the next morning for energon, to spend time with him, to act as if everything was normal.

He'd written this program, and now he had to execute it.

x.x.x.x.x

"Mornin', Wheeljack!" Jazz called cheerfully as he passed the table in the common room Wheeljack had chosen, making him jump.

"Morning," he replied in a subdued tone as he watched Jazz make his way to the energon dispenser. He'd shown up anticipating Trailbreaker would be waiting for him, but Trailbreaker hadn't yet arrived, and the delay was making Wheeljack increasingly uneasy.

He fidgeted with his cube, eyeing the second one he'd set on the table across from him for Trailbreaker, to mark the seat as taken. He pondered subspacing both and returning to his lab; he could always claim he'd forgotten their plans to meet, or lost track of the time –

"Good morning!"

Trailbreaker moved around to take the empty seat opposite him, trailing a hand affectionately across Wheeljack's shoulder-strut as he did so. He picked up the cube with a nod of thanks, and took a sip.

"Recharge well?" Trailbreaker asked.

_Try not at all_, Wheeljack thought grimly. "Sure," he lied. "You?"

"Had a little trouble switching off, at first," Trailbreaker said playfully, his tone lightly teasing. "For some reason my circuits were all overheated."

Wheeljack flinched guiltily. "Sorry," he muttered, avoiding Trailbreaker's optics.

"Oh, I didn't mean it like _that_," Trailbreaker replied quickly, looking apologetic. "I don't mind, really. Pit, after all you've done for me, I figure I owed you one. Two or three, even."

Wheeljack nodded, taking a sip from his cube.

Trailbreaker reached for his free hand, covering it with his own. "I'm really glad you came by last night," he said, soft and sincere. "I never dreamed you would."

Wheeljack struggled to find a suitable response to that, frantically searching his CPU for the right words to form a reply. _Say something_, he thought anxiously, his spark twisting in its chamber. Trailbreaker was regarding him closely. _He's looking at you, say something!_

"What's wrong?" Trailbreaker asked, concern and a hint of dread coloring his tone as Wheeljack lowered his gaze.

He couldn't look at him, couldn't bring himself to lift his optics from the cube in front of him. His vocalizer was frozen, his vocal indicators dark and lifeless.

"Is it...because of last night?" Trailbreaker inquired hesitantly, almost fearfully, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. "Did I...did I do something wrong?"

"No," he said quietly, finding his voice at last. "No, you...you were fine. I just...I think I made a mistake. It was….too soon."

Trailbreaker stared at him, looking hurt and bewildered. But then a glimmer of understanding lit his optics. "Too fast?" he asked.

"Um...yeah," he said. "I guess, yeah."

"I'm not really one for fast myself," Trailbreaker admitted. "I know I'm the one who made the first move, but I wasn't expecting to go all-out right then and there, or even that night. I just wanted you to know I was interested," Trailbreaker explained. "Personally, I prefer to get to _know_ a mech before I start bumpin' windshields with him."

Wheeljack nodded in agreement.

Trailbreaker looked at him shyly, "But after what you did for me, I figured, what more do I need to know? You're about as good as they get."

"Thanks," Wheeljack said softly, touched by the compliment.

"Plus, Hound knows you, and he said I should go for it."

"Oh," he said.

"I'm not in any hurry, though," Trailbreaker said. "When you said you hadn't overloaded since we left Cybertron, I figured you wouldn't want to wait. But if you'd rather take it slow, that's more than fine by me."

"Yeah," he replied. "Yeah, okay."

"We could go for a drive sometime," Trailbreaker suggested. "Get to know each other better?"

Whheljack thought about the night before, about Trailbreaker's hands moving lovingly over his chassis, and suppressed a shudder. Then he thought about the sunset they'd watched together, the time they'd spent in his lab working on the mods, and how relaxing it had been, how much he'd enjoyed Trailbreaker's company. How grateful he'd been to have it.

To not be alone.

"Sure," he replied. "That...that sounds nice."

Looking strangely relieved, Trailbreaker rose, dispersed his empty cube, and held out a hand. "When are you off duty again?"

Wheeljack subspaced the remainder of his own cube and accepted the proffered hand, allowing Trailbreaker to pull him to his feet. "Tomorrow."

"Shoot, I'm on then," Trailbreaker said, sounding disappointed. "Maybe I can switch with somebody. If I do, I'll comm you."

"All right," he replied.

...maybe it _would_ be.


	11. Assignation

**Title: **After Atlantis  
**Obligatory Disclaimer:** I don't own Transformers.  
**Warnings: **PTSD angst, references to rape.

**Chapter 11: Assignation**

After leaving the common room and saying goodbye to Trailbreaker, Wheeljack headed for his lab. He hadn't taken more than a handful of strides when he got the ping on his internal comm.

He opened a channel. _*Yes?*_

_*Wheeljack, this is Prowl. You're needed in the cargo bay. The Dinobots have gotten into another fight, and they're refusing to stand down.*_

He groaned inwardly. Incidents like this occurred from time to time, usually when there was a lull in the struggle against the Decepticons. Apart from fighting, there were very few duties his powerful but dim-witted creations were well suited for. Working in the cargo bay was one of the few jobs they could manage; their strength made them invaluable when it came to heavy lifting, and the simple task of loading and unloading supplies didn't tax their slow-functioning processors overmuch.

Unfortunately, the Dinobots were as ill tempered and intractable as they were formidable, and even the smallest disagreement between them could quickly escalate into a full-fledged brawl. When that happened, it wasn't easy to bring them back under control, even with the combined efforts of many Autobots. As their creator, Wheeljack was one of the few 'Bots Grimlock and the others would listen to. When all else failed, they commed him.

_*On my way,*_ he replied with resignation.

_*Quickly, please,*_ came the crisp reply. _*Prowl out.*_

Grumbling, Wheeljack transformed, making excellent time as he shot off towards the cargo bay at top speed.

He'd been very proud of the Dinobots lately. After their disastrous introduction and rather shaky entrance into the Autobot ranks, he'd been hard-pressed to convince the other 'Bots of their value, but recently the Dinobots' intervention had spelled the difference between victory and defeat in several battles against the Decepticons, and attitudes toward them had grown increasingly positive as a result.

But Wheeljack knew that repeated incidents like this one would quickly obliterate that good sentiment, costing the Dinobots most or all of the precious ground they'd gained.

He could admit that the Dinobots weren't one of his most successful inventions, but unlike any of his other failed experiments, Wheeljack couldn't bring himself to simply discard them like so much scrap metal. They weren't mere malfunctioning gadgets – they were _alive_. They had thoughts and feelings, even if those thoughts _were_ exceedingly simple, and tended toward arrogance and aggression. He was their creator; he had a responsibility to them, to protect and instruct them, to shield them from harm.

But as strongly as Wheeljack felt about that, coming hard on the heels of his own troubles, this little altercation was the very _last_ thing he needed.

x.x.x.x.x

It took a little over a breem to get the Dinobots back under control.

Fortunately, the damage to the cargo bay and the supplies it contained was minimal. The damage to the Dinobots themselves, however, was significant, and several of the 'Bots who'd endeavored to bring the brawling titans under control had sustained minor injuries as well.

That was the worst part. The damage the Dinobots had inflicted upon each other wasn't irreparable, but it was fairly extensive. Being hardy by nature, they didn't complain. The injured Autobots, however – most of them minibots, and unfortunately among the most vocal – didn't hesitate to make their opinions of both Wheeljack and his creations abundantly clear.

Ignoring their jibes and mockery, Wheeljack herded his rebellious charges toward the repair bay, resolving to have a very stern conversation with Grimlock once their repairs were completed.

Preoccupied as he was, he had completely forgotten about Ratchet.

He halted on the threshold when he caught sight of the medic, all the tension and embarrassment of their most recent encounter rushing back to him.

"Oh,_ s__lag,_" he muttered.

"What?" Slag responded. The triceratops was standing at his shoulder, looking up at him inquiringly.

Wheeljack couldn't help but chuckle, in spite of his present mood.

Letting the Dinobots choose their own designations had been Ratchet's idea, but Wheeljack doubted Ratchet had anticipated one of them might chose one of the more colorful words from his own vocabulary when he'd made the suggestion. Ratchet had tried to talk Slag out of it, tried to persuade him to pick a different name, but Slag had been immovable.

Wheeljack had thought it was hilarious. Ratchet had dented his helm for laughing, but it had been worth it. Slag wanted to be Slag, so Slag he was.

"Go on in," he told the Dinobot, suppressing a snicker. "Let Ratchet take a look at you."

Slag nodded and obediently plodded over to where Ratchet was standing – and glaring.

"_Now_ what?" Ratchet demanded irritably. "Don't tell me they've done it _again_."

"'Fraid so," Wheeljack replied, fighting to keep the amusement out of his vocalizer. He waved the others into the repair bay, getting them lined up in order of the severity of their injuries.

His good mood lasted throughout most of the repairs, but as each Dinobot was brought back to optimal function and released, the concerns that had been weighing on his processor promptly returned to the fore.

He watched Snarl, who'd been the least damaged and thus the last to be repaired, depart with some regret.

He was left alone with Ratchet. The tension level in the repair bay increased accordingly.

Wheeljack busied himself with the task of putting away the tools he'd used, studiously avoiding looking in Ratchet's direction.

"Don't tell me you're still torqued off because I turned you down," Ratchet said acerbically, breaking the prolonged silence. "Trust me, 'Jack, it was a bad idea."

"Yeah, I know," he replied, his tone subdued. He'd found that out the hard way.

Ratchet looked at him in surprise; clearly he'd been expecting an argument.

"You were right," Wheeljack conceded, his voice almost a whisper, vocal indicators barely flickering. "It _was_ a bad idea. I should have listened to you."

Ratchet stared at him, his expression shifting from mild puzzlement to one of dawning horror and disbelief. "Oh, no," he said, almost pleadingly. "Tell me you didn't."

Wheeljack made no reply, only looked away, avoiding his optics.

"Oh, _'Jack_," Ratchet whispered, stricken.

"This is the part where you say, 'I told you so,'" Wheeljack informed him bitterly.

"No," Ratchet replied, coming over and laying a gentle hand on his shoulder-strut. "It isn't."

For a klik they simply stood in silence, unmoving. It was Ratchet who spoke first. "Who was it?"

"Does it matter?" Wheeljack retorted. "It was a mistake. I thought I could – I thought it would help, but…" he trailed off, cycling a sigh through his intakes. "You were right."

After a long pause, Ratchet asked reluctantly, "Was it…bad?"

"Awful," he replied immediately. A crackle of static infused the single word, making him wince. He reset his traitorous vocalizer. "It was awful," he repeated.

Ratchet remained silent, but his grip on Wheeljack's shoulder-strut tightened.

Wheeljack wanted to leave it at that, to let the subject drop entirely, but he _had_ to ask. "You knew what would happen," he said. "How did you know?"

"I'm a medic," Ratchet replied simply.

A pain that was strangely like grief welled up in his spark. He'd just wanted everything to be normal again, the way it used to be. It was his function to fix things; why couldn't he fix this? He'd tried to approach the situation logically, like he would any other problem. He'd tried to repair it, but he'd only made things worse.

And it _hurt_. No damage, no injury he'd suffered in his entire existence had ever hurt like this. _Pain_ seemed too inadequate a word, _hurt_ too poor a descriptor.

"Does it ever stop hurting?" he asked, bleak but clinging to a faint, desperate hope. "Does it ever get better?"

"Yes," Ratchet said. "But it takes time, 'Jack. A lot of time." He hesitated a moment, "And you have to talk about it."

"No," he said firmly, shaking his helm.

"'Jack –"

"_No_," he said adamantly. "I'm _not_ talking about it."

Ratchet's hand on his shoulder-strut gave another squeeze, "You have to, 'Jack. You need to. And you _want_ to. Deep down, I think some part of you knows that."

"I don't _want_ to talk about it!" he protested, shrugging off Ratchet's hand and rounding on him. "I don't even want to _think_ about it! All I ever _do_ is think about it!"

His treacherous vocalizer was emitting pops and crackles of static again. Wheeljack clenched his hands into fists, fighting to stay in control, anger and frustration surging in his spark.

"Why don't we go into my office," Ratchet suggested.

Wheeljack shook his helm, "No, I – not now. I have to talk to the Dinobots, to Grimlock. I have to teach them better self-control. We can't have them tearing up the _Ark_ and each other like this."

Ratchet regarded him for a long moment, his expression unreadable.

"All right," Ratchet relented. "Go and take care of it. But later, I promise you, you and I are going to have a talk."

Dread infused his circuits, causing his spark to clench. "Sure, Ratch," he said reluctantly. "Whatever you say."

He departed quickly, before Ratchet could call him on the insincerity of his tone.

x.x.x.x.x

Working with the Dinobots was no simple task.

Granted, Wheeljack had an easier time of it than most. His status as their creator afforded him a certain degree of respect. He also knew how to talk to them, how to get them to obey his commands, how to phrase his requests in a manner they'd respond to.

The trick, he'd found, was to convince Grimlock.

The other Dinobots invariably followed Grimlock's lead. As the strongest, Grimlock was viewed as the de facto king of their small group. Where he led, the rest followed.

The arrogant tyrannosaur was quite enamored of his position as the Dinobots' leader. It was a role he was well-suited for, but also a source of great pride for the hulking mech. Wheeljack had learned that any request framed by a recognition of that status would invariably be well-received by Grimlock.

Therefore, all he had to do to get the Dinobots to exercise greater self-control was to persuade _Grimlock_. And to convince Grimlock, Wheeljack simply had to explain to him that when the other Dinobots misbehaved, it reflected poorly on him as their leader.

After that, things progressed quite smoothly.

He spent the rest of the day working with the Dinobots, and with Grimlock in particular, coaching them in the use of their abilities, focusing on fine control over raw power. When Grimlock performed well, Wheeljack praised him lavishly, both for his efforts and his leadership abilities. Preening, Grimlock would then turn and demand that his fellow Dinobots perform to the same standard.

Once that pattern had been established, training with the Dinobots was almost…fun. There were a couple of snags along the way, most resulting from the odd bout of clumsiness or minor dispute, but to Wheeljack's delight, even those incidents were largely handled by Grimlock himself, and required little-to-no intervention from him.

As distractions went, it was one of the better ones he'd come up with, and it provided him with the perfect excuse to avoid Ratchet for a while. It was a relief, not having to worry about –

His internal comm pinged.

Stepping away from the Dinobots, Wheeljack responded. _*Yeah?*_

_*Wheeljack,*_ a familiar deep voice greeted him cheerfully. _*It's Trailbreaker.*_

His spark sank.

_*Hey, Trailbreaker,*_ he replied, praying his friendly tone didn't sound too forced. _*What's up?*_

_*You remember how I said I'd comm you if I was able to trade my duty shift with someone?*_ Trailbreaker inquired.

_*Yeah?*_ Wheeljack replied expectantly.

_*Well…I couldn't convince anyone,*_ Trailbreaker admitted with obvious chagrin. _*I tried, but everyone I asked turned me down.*_

_*That's okay,*_ he replied, feeling relieved. _*It's not your fault.*_

_*I did have another idea, but…I'm not sure you're going to like it,*_ Trailbreaker continued, sounding hesitant and uncertain.

Wheeljack's spark clenched. Apart from their regular off-duty cycles, which were prescheduled, the only leisure time the Autobots were afforded was designated for cleansing, refueling…and recharge. He had his suspicions about what sort of alternate activity Trailbreaker might have in mind.

_*What's that?*_ he asked warily.

_*I was thinking, if you didn't mind, maybe you could join me on my shift?*_ Trailbreaker asked hopefully. _*Ever since I got jumped by the 'Cons that time, Prowl's assigned one of the twins to escort me while I'm out on patrol; they're faster than me, and have more firepower.*_

_*Uh-huh,*_ Wheeljack replied, indicating that he should go on.

_*The thing is, you do too, so I figured if _you _volunteered to go with me instead, Prowl would probably be okay with that,*_ Trailbreaker continued. _*I know the twins would be,*_ he muttered. _*They _hate _having to tag around after me.*_

_*Right,* _he said.

_*You'd be giving up some of your off-duty time to put in extra joors on-duty,*_ Trailbreaker explained unnecessarily, sounding simultaneously hopeful and apologetic. _*But at least we'd get to spend some time together.*_

Wheeljack considered the request. Normally he only took on additional duties when a crisis warranted it. He enjoyed his time off, relished having the opportunity to relax, get caught up on his projects, and ponder new ideas at his leisure.

Or at least he _had_. His newly acquired inability to recharge, coupled with a need for near-constant diversion, had left Wheeljack more caught up than he'd been in orns. At the rate he was going, he'd soon have to resort to pointless make-work just to keep his processor occupied. Under the circumstances, the prospect of extra duties and less time off was unusually appealing.

And of course there was Ratchet to consider. Because they so often worked together, Ratchet was well acquainted with Wheeljack's duty schedule. Knowing he had tomorrow off, there was a good chance Ratchet would seek him out to…talk.

In which case, Wheeljack surmised, being off on a patrol somewhere outside the _Ark_ might be a very good place for him to be.

_*Yeah, okay,*_ he said finally, to Trailbreaker's delight. _*If Prowl's all right with it, I'll go along with you tomorrow.*_

After an exchange of farewells and no small amount of enthusiastic gratitude from Trailbreaker, Wheeljack closed the comm channel and went back to observing the Dinobots, trying to ignore the tiny flicker of apprehension stirring in his spark.

x.x.x.x.x

Wheeljack fidgeted nervously as he stood just inside the entrance to the _Ark_, waiting for Trailbreaker.

Mentally he chided himself for his unease. What was he so worried about? It was a patrol shift, after all. Trailbreaker wouldn't suggest they do anything…_inappropriate_ while on duty.

…would he?

No, of course not. Trailbreaker had a reputation for reliability. He wasn't the type to shirk his responsibilities in favor of…other pursuits.

They'd be in vehicle mode most of the time, anyway.

Shaking off his anxiety, Wheeljack checked his internal chronometer. He was a little early. Trailbreaker wouldn't be officially late for another klik or two.

He peered out at the narrow strip of sky visible from his present position. It was dark and ominous, heavily mantled with storm clouds – fitting weather for his present mood.

Rain was likely, probably imminent. Not a good day for a pleasure drive. The roads would be slick, the visibility poor. In the mountains, it might even be snowing.

As Trailbreaker had predicted, Prowl had readily agreed to allow Wheeljack to substitute for Sideswipe – Trailbreaker's designated escort for the day's patrol – and Sideswipe had been downright _ecstatic_ when he learned he'd been excused from his least-favorite duty.

Wheeljack wondered what Sideswipe would do with his unexpected windfall, and whether Prowl would end up regretting granting the mischievous Lamborghini extra leisure time.

He wondered if _he'd_ end up regretting it, too.

"You're early," Trailbreaker said from behind him, making him jump. He sounded dismayed. "I hope you haven't been waiting too long?"

"Nah, not really," he replied with a shrug.

Trailbreaker glanced out at the darkening sky. "Ugh. Lousy weather," he commented. Turning back to address Wheeljack directly, he added brightly, "But at least we'll have a chance to talk!"

He nodded. "So I should just...follow you?" he asked, discomfited by Trailbreaker's steady gaze and hopeful smile.

"Yup, that's it," Trailbreaker replied. "I scan, you follow. Ready to go?"

"Sure," Wheeljack agreed.

They transformed and rolled out.

x.x.x.x.x

Wheeljack counted himself lucky that patrols weren't a part of his regular duties.

The weather hadn't held. Predictably, within a few kliks of their departure from the _Ark_, the sky had opened up and proceeded to dump a truly impressive quantity of water onto the two Autobots. It wasn't harmful – Cybertronians could tolerate total immersion without suffering damage to their vital components – but neither was it pleasant.

Their patrol route currently bore more resemblance to a river than a roadway, and they had to endure the constant sensation of cold water – or worse, cold _mud_ – splashing against their undercarriages and into their wheel wells as they drove. The heavy rain also created a kind of intermittent barrier that impeded and periodically reflected their sensors, so every reading had to be laboriously checked and rechecked to verify its accuracy.

The conversation began more as commiseration than anything else.

_*I bet Sideswipe is laughing his aft off right now,*_ Wheeljack commed irritably.

For a few astroseconds the only response was the hiss of dead air over the open channel.

_*I'm really sorry,*_ Trailbreaker said finally, his vocalizer sounding small and tinny over the comm link – a side effect of the rain, perhaps. _*I should have checked the weather before I asked you to come.*_

Wheeljack didn't respond. Saying _Yeah, you should have_ – his first impulse – would be rude and spiteful. It wasn't like Trailbreaker had _forced_ him to come along. He'd agreed to it – without checking the forecast himself, it seemed fair to note – and Trailbreaker could hardly be blamed for something as unpredictable as Earth weather, anyway. So he held his peace.

_*At least there's not much chance of the 'Cons being out in this,*_ Trailbreaker said, struggling to find a bright side to the situation.

_*Then they're smarter than we are,*_ Wheeljack groused. _*Not that we'd know if they were, in this slag. I can't see half a meter in front of me.*_

Dead air.

Wheeljack fell into a sullen silence, wallowing in his misery. He became so absorbed in fact, it took him several kliks to register that while water continued to spray out from beneath his tires and splatter against his undercarriage, it was no longer drenching him from above. His core temperature had reclaimed a few of the degrees it had lost since they started out, and his sensor readings were clearer.

Yet the rain hadn't stopped.

He could see it, falling all around him like a silver curtain, but he couldn't _feel_ it.

Wheeljack was just about to reopen the comm link, intent on alerting Trailbreaker to this mysterious phenomenon, when he noticed the faint glow hovering just above him.

A force field.

He suddenly felt like a complete and total aft.

Sheepishly, he reopened the channel. _*Thanks,*_ he commed.

_*Don't mention it,*_ Trailbreaker commed back.

He sounded pleased.


	12. Ablution

**Title: **After Atlantis  
**Obligatory Disclaimer:** I don't own Transformers.  
**Warnings: **PTSD angst, references to rape, sexual situations.  
**Author's Note:** This is the last of the back chapters. I'm currently writing Chapter 13, but this marks the end of the daily double chapter postings.

**Chapter 12: Ablution**

Upon returning to the _Ark_, they headed straight for the washracks.

Wheeljack had never been one to obsess over his appearance. He wasn't Tracks, or – Primus forbid – _Sunstreaker_. Any minor scuffs or dents he acquired on his chassis were repaired, of course – when he got around to it. Extensive polishing was too troublesome and time-consuming to bother with. Looking like an ambulatory mirror wasn't high on Wheeljack's list of priorities.

But he drew the line at _mud_.

Wet and fresh, it was slippery and unpleasant. Dry and caked-on, it was gritty and itchy. In either state, it compromised sensors, sifted into joints and servos with every movement, and got all over everything.

Right now, Wheeljack was _covered_ with it.

Trailbreaker seemed to share his opinion on the subject; he came along with him. Wheeljack didn't have a problem with that, until they'd actually _entered_ the washracks.

They were completely deserted.

Doing his best to conceal his unease, he nodded and laughed at Trailbreaker's joke about mud getting into the darndest places as he stepped over the threshold. After a brief glance around, he made his way to the far side of the room, switching on the sprayer in a perfunctory manner and stepping under it.

He offlined his optics, cycling a sigh of relief as the warm solvent coursed over him, beginning to wash away the worst of the grime that had accumulated on his chassis.

He onlined them again with a jolt when he heard the second sprayer switch on a short – _very short_ – distance to his right. His servos locked into place; suddenly he was too frightened to move. He couldn't even bring himself to turn his helm, although he already knew what he'd see.

Out of all the wash stations in the room – enough to accommodate over twenty mechs – Trailbreaker had picked one directly adjacent to the one the Wheeljack had chosen.

All he could do was stand there, frozen in terror, staring at the mud and solvent as it ran down his frame in thready rivulets, watching it coil into the drain at his feet, his spark pulsing wildly in its chamber. He could hear the movements of other mech nearby – _too_ nearby – hear the faint squeaks and protests of mud-coated servos as Trailbreaker endeavored to cleanse himself of the unwelcome organic substance.

At first he thought he might remain that way forever, but after a few kliks had passed with no indication from Trailbreaker that he was even aware of Wheeljack's presence – not a word, not a gesture – he relaxed slightly, and found he was able to move again. He resumed his efforts to remove the mud from himself, focusing all his attention on that simple task.

"Want me to do your back?"

His helm jerked up. "What?"

"Your back," Trailbreaker said. "I'll do yours if you'll do mine. I'd appreciate a hand; can't reach on my own." He laughed. "Figures that's where all the mud always ends up."

Wheeljack wanted to refuse. He wanted desperately to say 'no.' But what reason could he give, what excuse did he have? The request was hardly an unusual one, though typically reserved for close acquaintances.

Which of course they _were_, strictly speaking. They'd interfaced, after all.

"Sure," he consented, fighting to keep the strain from his vocalizer.

Trailbreaker took a step toward him, but Wheeljack held up a hand to halt him. "You first," he said.

Trailbreaker smiled, "All right," and turned around, offering his back.

Grabbing one of the stiff brushes provided at each station, Wheeljack hesitantly took hold of Trailbreaker's shoulder-strut to steady himself.

That's when he noticed his hands were shaking.

Gripping the brush tighter in an effort to quell the involuntary tremors, he set to work on Trailbreaker's backstrut, which was heavily clogged with silt. His initial efforts might have been more vigorous than was comfortable, but Trailbreaker made no complaint. In fact, he remained completely still and silent while Wheeljack worked.

Within a few kliks Trailbreaker's backstrut was spotless and gleaming. Wheeljack moved on to his shoulder-plates, taking care to scrub underneath, where grit could invade the gaps and compromise sensitive circuitry.

"Mmmm," Trailbreaker hummed appreciatively. "That feels _amazing_."

Wheeljack was so startled he nearly dropped the brush.

_Idiot!_ he chided himself mercilessly. _There's a_ sensor cluster _there! Now he thinks you're – _

"Don't stop," Trailbreaker said, interrupting his thoughts. "You're great at this."

"Thanks," Wheeljack murmured, reluctantly applying the brush once more.

This time his strokes were a little more tentative.

"Hound's terrible," Trailbreaker elaborated conversationally. "Don't tell him I said so, but don't ever let _him_ do your back. He'll take your paint off!"

"I'll remember that," he replied absently, intent on his task. In his CPU, he'd pulled up Trailbreaker's medical file and was carefully mapping out the most heavily sensor-laden regions of Trailbreaker's chassis, places he thought it best he avoid.

Naturally, _those_ spots were just as muddy as the rest.

Feeling trapped and desperate, his spark surging in panic, Wheeljack began to scrub faster, determined to finish as quickly as possible. He forced himself to include the areas he would have preferred to avoid entirely, but he couldn't bring himself to press as firmly as he knew he ought to, to ensure every trace of mud was removed.

In hindsight, it probably would have been better if he had.

When Trailbreaker _groaned_ and pulled away, turning to regard him with glowing optics, Wheeljack realized his gentle, hesitant strokes might have been interpreted as deliberately _erotic_.

"Enough," Trailbreaker rumbled. "Your turn."

Wheeljack stood frozen as Trailbreaker took the brush from his trembling hands, stepping behind him. He didn't flinch when Trailbreaker rested a hand on his shoulder-strut for balance just as had he done; he held very, very still.

He _did_ flinch when the brush made contact with his backstrut.

"You're really tense," Trailbreaker commented as he scrubbed.

Processing quickly, Wheeljack replied, "Stress. The Dinobots have been acting up again." Fearing further questions, he tried to will the tension out of his taut servos, and was rewarded when his shoulder-struts eased slightly.

"They do seem to do that a lot," Trailbreaker said, still scrubbing.

"Certainly more than I'd like," he responded. "Every time I think they've finally been accepted, they get into trouble again, and end up right back where they started." He cycled a sigh through his intakes. "Naturally everyone blames me, because –"

"…because you're the one who built them," Trailbreaker concluded for him. "I guess that's understandable." He leaned in closer to reach a stubborn clot of mud wedged into a transformation seam running up Wheeljack's side. "On the other hand, they _have_ saved our tailpipes more than once."

"Yeah, but no one remembers that when they're trashing the cargo bay," Wheeljack replied bitterly. "I've been working with them, but there's only so much I can do. They're just…clumsy. They can't help it."

"Nobody's perfect," Trailbreaker agreed. "Raise your right arm a little."

He complied with the request without even thinking about it. The steady scrubbing felt good; the relaxation he'd initially feigned slowly turning into the real thing.

"I can't just scrap them," Wheeljack said mournfully. "I won't. They may not be perfect, but they're _alive_. They–" He trailed off as the scrubbing suddenly ceased. "What's wrong?" he inquired, peering over his shoulder at the larger mech.

Trailbreaker was staring at him with a kind of awe. "It just hit me," he said, responding to Wheeljack's puzzled look. "You're right – the Dinobots _are_ alive. And _you_ created them."

"Yeah?" he said, confused. "So..?"

"You brought the Dinobots to _life_," Trailbreaker repeated. "_You_, not Vector Sigma. That's…incredible."

He realized abruptly what Trailbreaker was getting at. It was both flattering and embarrassing. Wheeljack felt his circuits heating, though he wasn't sure which emotion was responsible. "Well…they're not very bright," he deflected. "And they _do_ tend to destroy things."

Trailbreaker seemed to shake himself. "I guess…it's all in how you look at it," he said slowly, and bent to resume his task.

With a slight difference.

Wheeljack couldn't be sure it was deliberate – after all, he himself had done the same thing unintentionally only a breem ago, in complete innocence – but the strokes of the brush were suddenly much slower, softer, and undeniably more _sensual_ than they had been a moment before.

It felt…nice.

A part of him wanted to pull away. Another part wanted to stay right where he was, and see if the gentle strokes would continue, perhaps progress to other, more sensitive areas…

"I think that about does it," Trailbreaker announced, straightening.

Wheeljack turned to look at him in surprise. Trailbreaker wasn't even looking at him; he rinsed the brush carefully, set it back in its niche, and then switched off the sprayers.

"Thanks for tagging along today," Trailbreaker said, turning back and laying a hand on his shoulder-strut. "I know it wasn't what you'd call a _fun_ outing, but I enjoyed it. Maybe we can do better next time."

"S-sure," he stammered.

"See you around."

Wheeljack stared after the departing mech for a long time.

x.x.x.x.x

He returned to his quarters almost in a daze, keying in the locking code automatically and stepping inside, barely registering the faint hiss of the door as it slid shut behind him.

He moved to the chair at his workstation, turned it around and sank into it, a myriad of thoughts swirling in his processor, a confusing tangle of emotions pulling at his spark.

Trailbreaker had just…walked out.

Wheeljack had been expecting – _dreading_ – another interface request. Given Trailbreaker's behavior up to that point – in the washracks especially – it had seemed practically inevitable. Wheeljack had all but resigned himself to having to go through with it.

But instead, Trailbreaker had just said goodbye and walked out.

It was an incredible _relief_.

He slouched down in his chair, the tension finally easing from his servos. He'd been wound up tighter than a mainspring all day. He'd been so _sure_…

But Trailbreaker hadn't.

Wheeljack felt an odd surge of gratitude toward the other mech. The past few days had been extremely stressful for him, but now he was clean, comfortable, calm, and relaxed. He felt…good.

And once again, he had _Trailbreaker_ to thank for it.

The thought made him chuckle. After all that had happened between them, he'd assumed – not unreasonably – that he would no longer find Trailbreaker's presence as soothing as he had in the past.

Yet here he was, sitting at ease in his quarters, thanks to him. He ran a finger down the length of the transformation seam on his right side appraisingly. Not a trace of mud remained. Trailbreaker had done a good job.

_Better than I did on myself,_ Wheeljack thought ruefully, noting a small clump of grit still clinging to the edge of his chestplate. He stretched to retrieve the cleaning cloth he kept stashed in a drawer at his workstation – more frequently used on his inventions than himself – and buffed away the spot.

It was odd, the way Trailbreaker had just _left_ like that…

He spied another spot he'd missed and buffed that out too, shaking his helm at his own carelessness.

Trailbreaker had departed in a good mood, to all outward appearances. Wheeljack was fairly certain he hadn't done or said anything that could be construed as offensive, even to the touchiest mech, which Trailbreaker definitely wasn't. It seemed unlikely he'd left in a fit of pique.

But he _had_ left. Wheeljack couldn't fathom why.

Absorbed in his thoughts, his efforts at polishing became increasingly directionless, devolving into half-sparked swipes at random sections of his chassis.

It didn't make any sense. Trailbreaker had opted to use the wash station right next to his, when he'd had the entire room to choose from. He'd offered to wash the places Wheeljack couldn't reach. On their own, those things weren't _inherently_ suggestive, but they did imply a certain degree of…familiarity.

His fingers absently traced another transformation seam, this time the one at his hip. The polishing cloth slipped from his hand, unnoticed.

Of course it wasn't _unheard_ of for two mechs who were close friends to assist each other in such a way, but it occurred far more frequently between lovers, and for good reason. For some Autobots – particularly those with an exhibitionistic streak – a visit to the washracks with one's lover was a popular form of foreplay.

His fingers flitted idly across the seam again. He slouched lower in his chair, widening the gap, allowing greater access to the wires and cables hidden within. His fingertips traced along their length, stroking gently.

Given their recent history, Wheeljack couldn't believe Trailbreaker had intended the offer as a strictly platonic one. It wasn't outside the realm of possibility; Trailbreaker had indicated he'd done the same thing with Hound, whom he'd identified as 'just a friend.' But then, he'd also admitted to having interfaced with Hound, once upon a time...

The other hand slid down his chassis to join the first, dipping into the seam on the opposite side.

He recalled the light, teasing strokes of the brush moving over his plating. That had been nice.

His fingers continued their steady motion, sliding back and forth as arched into them, leaning further back in his chair.

But had it been intentional? Could he have misread the situation? No, it _had_ to have been deliberate. There was no other logical explanation. Trailbreaker had _clearly_ wanted to –

The sharp _click-whirr_ of his cooling fans switching on startled him out of his reverie. To his dismay, he discovered that his core temperature had risen significantly over the course of his musings, and his fingers were –

He jerked his hands away from himself hastily. His plating was hot, but not dangerously so; nevertheless he reacted as if he'd been burned. He panted through his intakes, trying to rapidly cool his overheated core.

A chaotic blend of conflicting emotions assailed him – distaste, arousal, revulsion, longing, confusion, loneliness, despair, disgust. His fuel tank churned; his spark fluttered.

Great Cybertron, what was _wrong_ with him?

A mild charge had built up in his circuits, leaving him feeling restless. A part of him wanted to finish what he'd started. Another part was horrified that he'd started at all.

He'd never had any issues with self-service before. Sometimes he even preferred it to interfacing – it was less complicated, more convenient. If he craved an emotional connection, he'd seek out a suitable partner, but for the times when he just wanted to relax himself with a quick overload, he had no compunctions about tweaking a few wires and tripping a few sensors to get there.

But now the act was no longer relaxing. There were too many uncomfortable associations, too many conflicting emotions involved to even contemplate it. He couldn't bring himself to finish. He didn't dare attempt to enter recharge in his present state.

In the end, he simply sat, alone in the dark, waiting for his systems to normalize.


	13. Attrition

**Title: **After Atlantis**  
Obligatory Disclaimer:** I don't own Transformers.  
**Warnings: **PTSD angst, references to rape, elements of cognitive behavior therapy.  
**Author's Note:** Thanks again to everyone for reading and reviewing. Your kind words help keep me going. This was a difficult chapter to write. I've been hinting for a while now, and here it is at last: the dreaded Talk with Ratchet. *cue dramatic music*

**Chapter 13: Attrition**

A message alert notification roused him out of energy conservation mode.

He hadn't been able to bring himself to attempt recharge the night before, not even after his systems had normalized. He'd opted to power down instead, hoping to retain as much of his remaining energy reserves as possible. His recharge levels would be partially depleted when he reported for duty in a few joors, but since he'd been tasked with the relatively undemanding assignment of monitor duty for the forthcoming shift, he wagered he would be able to function adequately.

It was a gamble, of course. The Decepticons might attack, or an accident might leave some 'Bot critically injured and in need of emergency repairs. There was no way of predicting what the future might hold, what crisis might arise.

The knowledge that he might be jeopardizing another mech's safety by showing up for his shift in less-than-optimal condition added the weight of guilt to Wheeljack's already-heavy emotional burden. He wondered how much more he could take before he finally collapsed under the strain.

Heaving a heavy sigh through his vents, he opened the recently delivered file.

For several kliks he simply stared at it in dismay, a tangled jumble of emotions warring within him.

The message was from Ratchet. It was, to all appearances, the standard appointment request for a prescheduled maintenance check.

The requested appointment time was less than a breem from now. He'd been excused from his morning duties so that he could attend.

Wheeljack wasn't due for a maintenance exam for another orn, at least. That in itself wasn't unusual; exams were often scheduled early for the sake of the medic, staggering appointments to avoid the inevitable bottleneck that resulted when multiple mechs came due at once. On the surface, the message was no different than any other of its type.

But Wheeljack knew better. More precisely, he knew _Ratchet_.

The maintenance exam was merely camouflage, an excuse to get Wheeljack into the repair bay. Because the request came directly from the CMO and had been delivered through official channels, it carried the same weight as a command.

The only way Wheeljack could refuse was via an equally official request to reschedule, in which he would be expected to provide a reason why the proposed appointment time was unworkable, and suggest an alternate. All such formal communications were recorded in the data tracks, readily available to any officer who cared to review them.

Even if he'd had a reasonable excuse, Wheeljack wasn't about to make his personal difficulties a matter of public record, and Ratchet knew it. There would be no dodging or avoidance this time. He'd been outmaneuvered.

A surge of hurt, anger and betrayal suffused his circuits. How could Ratchet _do_ this to him?

He supposed it was a form of revenge. Ratchet had allowed him a certain degree of freedom up until now, granting Wheeljack the opportunity to seek out his assistance of his own volition.

Wheeljack hadn't. If anything, he'd actively avoided it.

And now, it seemed, Ratchet's patience had finally run out.

x.x.x.x.x

It was with a dragging gait and a heavy spark that Wheeljack reported to the repair bay at the designated joor. His processor couldn't seem to settle on any one emotion, flickering rapidly from one to the next – hurt, guilt, fear, anger, shame, resentment, despair – long enough for him to respond to any of them, so he appeared outwardly calm, if somewhat preoccupied.

When he arrived, Ratchet was waiting for him.

Ratchet indicated his office with a jerk of his helm. Wheeljack made his way across the deserted repair bay like a condemned mech, his gaze never rising from the ground, coming to a halt when he reached the door.

Ratchet keyed in the locking code and waited for him to enter, following him in after he'd stepped inside.

Wheeljack shifted his weight uneasily once he'd crossed the threshold. Under normal circumstances he'd have taken a seat in one of the visitor's chairs without hesitation, just as he always had in the past, but this time, he remained on his feet.

"Sit down, 'Jack," Ratchet said mildly.

It seemed pointless to argue. He sat.

Ratchet settled himself into the chair behind his desk and regarded him thoughtfully.

Wheeljack avoided his gaze.

"I take it you know why you're here," Ratchet said. It wasn't really a question.

Wheeljack shrugged sullenly.

Ratchet huffed in annoyance. "Don't even start with me, Wheeljack," he warned. "I'm not the bad guy here. You forced my hand."

His helm jerked up at that. "_I_ forced _you?_" he asked incredulously. "I didn't ask for this! I _t__old_ you I didn't want to talk about it! So who's forcing who here, Ratchet? Huh?"

"You think I _wanted _this?" Ratchet retorted heatedly, rising from his seat. "I wanted you to come to me on your own! I gave you time, gave you space – look what you did with it! Threw yourself at the first mech who'd have you! How'd that work out for you, 'Jack?"

Wheeljack flinched visibly, as if he'd been struck.

Ratchet seemed to deflate a little, cycling a sigh through his vents. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that." He offlined his optics briefly, reining in his temper, then looked back to Wheeljack, his expression serious. "Tell me honestly, Wheeljack," he asked quietly. "Would you _ever_ have come to me, if I'd left you alone?"

Wheeljack thought about it.

"No," he said finally. "Probably not."

Ratchet didn't look surprised. "Then you agree this was the only way."

Wheeljack fidgeted uncomfortably. "I guess," he conceded, unable to dispute the logic of Ratchet's statement. He hesitated a moment, then confided, "I really don't want to do this, Ratch."

For a moment Ratchet's expression looked almost pained. "I know you don't." He rubbed his hands over his faceplate wearily, venting a sigh, then leaned forward to rest them on the desk, fixing the reluctant engineer with an earnest gaze. "But you asked me to help you, 'Jack. I _want_ to help you. I can't do that if you won't _let_ me."

A wave of guilt swept over him. Some friend _he_ was. Ratchet was doing his best to fix him, and he was treating him like the enemy. Ratchet had every reason to be angry at him for that, but in spite of that, he was _still_ trying to help.

"I'm sorry," he said, his vocalizer crackling. "I don't mean to be…difficult. I just –"

"I know," Ratchet said. "You're just trying to cope, the only way you know how." He smiled a faint, sad smile. "Because you're a stubborn aft who thinks he has to do everything by himself." Ratchet huffed through his vents. "But you don't, 'Jack. More importantly, you _shouldn't_. Not this time."

Chastened, Wheeljack lowered his helm, staring at his feet. "Do I really have to talk about it?" he asked reluctantly. "Isn't there some other way?"

"I'm afraid not," Ratchet replied.

"Can't we just forget about it?" he argued, looking up at him with pleading optics, vocal indicators flickering earnestly. "Just…pretend it never happened? Doesn't that make more sense than pulling it back into my cache over and over again?"

"It doesn't work that way, 'Jack, and you know it," Ratchet admonished gently. "Those events are a part of your core memory now – they're linked up and interconnected with countless other memory files. You can try to bury them, but they're still going to pop up every time you experience something your CPU has associated with them, whether you want them to or not."

He lowered his helm again. Ratchet was right, of course. Even if he hadn't known it already, it was an easy conclusion to draw based on his recent experiences.

Ratchet resumed his seat. "We may not be able to stop your processor from pulling up the files, but we _can_ mitigate your reaction through repeated exposure," he said. "That's why you need to talk about it."

Wheeljack cycled a sigh through his intakes. "All right," he said reluctantly. "I'll…I'll talk."

"Great," Ratchet said, looking relieved. "Let's start at the beginning. Tell me what happened with Starscream that day."

Wheeljack winced. "I already told you –" he protested.

"I know you did," Ratchet said, cutting him off. "But this isn't for my edification. You twitch whenever someone says his _name_, 'Jack. You freeze up whenever you see him. What happens the next time we go into battle? What happens if you have to _fight_ him? You have to do this. It's too dangerous not to."

"Fine, okay." he paused for an astrosecond, gathering himself, then began to speak.

"I onlined on the floor," he recited tonelessly. "I was damaged; couldn't move. I felt someone…touching me. Then they turned me over, and that's when I saw that it was –" he paused, shooting a brief, defiant look at the listening medic. "It was Starscream," he concluded firmly.

Ratchet nodded. "Go on."

"He, um…" Wheeljack faltered a moment in his recital, reset his vocalizer and continued, "…he opened me up, my…my chestplate, and then he, uh…plugged into me."

"How did feel about that?" Ratchet interrupted.

"What kind of a question is _that?_" he demanded, vocal indicators flashing stridently.

"Just tell me."

For a stunned astrosecond he simply stared at Ratchet in shocked disbelief. "Scared," he said finally, as if it should have been obvious. "Helpless. I couldn't move; couldn't do anything. I knew what he was going to do, but I couldn't stop him."

"How did you feel when he jacked in?"

"Sick," he responded immediately. "I wanted to purge."

"Did you think he was going to hack your processor?"

"Yeah," he replied. "I figured that was what he wanted. I tried to build up my firewalls, but my systems were too damaged; they weren't responding fast enough. I knew he was going to get in."

"But he didn't."

"He _could_ have. He didn't try," Wheeljack said. "Didn't complete the uplink, either. But I could feel him. He was just…there. Doing nothing."

"How did you feel about that?"

"Scared, still," he replied. "Sort of…confused? I mean, he was plugged in, but he wasn't _doing_ anything."

"What did you think about that?"

"I thought he was doing it on purpose. You know, drawing it out to scare me more," he said. "He knew I was scared; he could feel it through the link. He told me he could feel it."

"Could you feel him?"

"Yes," he replied shortly.

"What was he feeling?" Ratchet pressed.

Wheeljack threw him a resentful look, his optics narrowing. "Contempt," he spat. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair; the energon in his tanks was roiling.

"Did he say anything else?"

"Not then," Wheeljack said. "Later on, he…he told me to relax. Said I'd enjoy it."

Ratchet nodded. "What happened next?"

"He started touching me. Pushing his field into me."

"How did you feel about that?"

"Stop asking me that!" Wheeljack blurted out, exasperated. "How do you _think_ it felt?"

"I think it probably felt pretty good."

"Well, you'd be _wrong_," he disputed, a little too vehemently.

"It's all right, 'Jack," Ratchet said patiently. "Autonomic systems, remember? I didn't say you liked it, or that you wanted it, just that it felt good. He _meant_ for it to feel good; he wanted to force you to overload so he could absorb the energy discharge. Isn't that right?"

"…yeah," he allowed grudgingly. "But it _didn't_ feel _good_."

"'Jack –" Ratchet began.

"It felt horrible," Wheeljack insisted.

"…because it felt good," Ratchet said.

"_No _–" he proested, his circuits heating in agitation.

"Because it felt good, and you didn't _want_ it to," Ratchet persisted, firm but gentle.

He wanted to deny it, to argue, but it would be a lie. He shrank in on himself, huddling into his chair. "…yeah," he admitted in a small voice.

"I'm sorry, 'Jack," Ratchet said regretfully. "It must've been awful for you."

"Not as bad as _this_," he muttered resentfully.

Ratchet hesitated at that, but persevered, asking, "Then what happened?"

"I don't want to do this anymore," Wheeljack said, averting his optics.

"We're almost done," Ratchet reassured him. "Just tell me what happened next."

He muted his vocalizer, remaining stubbornly silent.

"Don't clam up on me, Wheeljack," Ratchet encouraged. "You're doing fine. What happened next?"

Silence.

Ratchet waited.

Wheeljack shifted uncomfortably, fidgeting in his chair.

Ratchet waited some more.

"I don't want to do this," he said again. "Why do I have to do this?"

"You know why," Ratchet replied. "Tell me what happened, 'Jack."

"I hate you," Wheeljack said coldly, glaring sullenly at the floor. "I hate you for making me do this."

Ratchet didn't reply immediately. When he spoke again, his tone was almost pleading. "Just say it, 'Jack," he entreated. "What happened next?"

Wheeljack didn't want to say it, but the odd desperation in Ratchet's vocalizer tugged at his spark. "He…I…"

"Go on," Ratchet encouraged.

"Do I have to _say_ it?" Wheeljack argued, balking. "You already know what happened."

"I do," Ratchet agreed. "But I need to hear you say it."

He didn't _want_ to say it. Even though Ratchet already knew, somehow saying it out loud seemed so much worse. His fuel tanks were churning, threatening to purge their contents, his circuits burning with shame and self-disgust. His hands –

"My hands are shaking," he said, staring at them in surprise.

"Yeah," Ratchet said. "Have been for a while now."

"Huh," Wheeljack said. How had he failed to notice that? He stared at them bemusedly.

"What happened next, 'Jack?" Ratchet pressed.

"Nothing," he replied evasively. "I offlined, woke up in repair bay."

"And before that? What made you go offline?"

Wheeljack flexed his shoulder-struts uneasily. He knew what Ratchet wanted him to say, but he didn't want to say it. It was just so…_humiliating_.

"Come on, 'Jack," Ratchet persisted, implacable. "You can do this. What did Starscream do?"

He didn't look at him. He didn't even lift his gaze from his hands. He offlined his optics, forced his vocalizer to transmit the words. "He made me overload," he whispered.

Ratchet nodded, "Okay. Good." He sounded relieved. "How did that make you feel?"

Suddenly it was too much to bear. He felt completely overwhelmed, hovering on the brink of total breakdown and fighting desperately not to slip over the edge. He shook his helm helplessly, feeling sick and shaken, tainted and ashamed, weak and pathetic.

"'Jack?"

"I can't," he said, "Please, Ratch, I _can't_."

"You can."

"No," he insisted, hating the traces of static invading his vocalizer, the weakness they represented. "_I can't_. I want to stop. Please, can't we stop?"

Ratchet didn't respond for a long, thoughtful moment. "Okay," he said finally. "I guess that's enough for today. Let's go and get your maintenance done."

Wheeljack looked at him in surprise. "You're still going to –?"

"Of course," Ratchet replied, anticipating his question. "You've got an appointment to keep, after all. It'd look pretty strange if you didn't have it done. You're about due anyway."

Feeling nonplussed, Wheeljack heaved himself out of his chair, following Ratchet back out to the main repair bay.


	14. Accountability

**Title: **After Atlantis  
**Obligatory Disclaimer:** I don't own Transformers. This chapter contains references to (and quotes some dialogue from) parts 1 & 2 of the G1 cartoon episode _"Dinobot Island." _Additional episodes will be referenced in future chapters.  
**Warnings: **None whatsoever! Ain't that a nice change of pace?

**Chapter 14: Accountability**

Within moments he was laid out on a repair berth, undergoing one of Ratchet's famously invasive maintenance exams.

Oddly enough, the exam didn't seem as intrusive or unpleasant this time around as the ones Wheeljack had undergone in the past. Even if it had been, he was too emotionally and physically drained to muster the energy to complain. He simply lay quietly, staring up at the ceiling.

Ratchet worked on him in silence, performing the routine procedure with his usual brisk efficiency, unkinking wires, replacing worn cables, checking joints and servos for signs of fatigue. The touch of the medic's hands felt surprisingly gentle to the wearied engineer, the aura of calm self-assurance Ratchet projected comforting in its familiarity.

The whole experience was strangely soothing. He was on the verge of slipping into a light recharge when Ratchet straightened, commenting, "That ought to do it."

Wheeljack roused a little. "You're done?"

"With the exam, yes," Ratchet replied. "I want to flush your hydraulics. Your pressure levels are a little high; I think it'll help."

"Oh. Okay," he said. "But won't that take –"

"Another joor or two, yeah," Ratchet finished for him. "Don't worry; I already cleared it with Prowl. He's getting someone else to cover your duty shift."

Wheeljack nodded his assent. The procedure Ratchet was suggesting wasn't technically part of standard maintenance, but he saw no real reason to object. It was occasionally necessary, and although time-consuming, not especially uncomfortable or painful, provided the patient remained relatively still while it was being performed.

He continued to lie passively while Ratchet went about the task of setting things up, hooking him into the various fluid lines in preparation to drain and flush his systems.

"All right," Ratchet said as he adjusted the pressure settings and initiated the flow. "Just relax, and try not to move around too much. I'll be back to check on you in about a breem. Any problems, give me a comm."

"Will do," Wheeljack replied agreeably. The peculiar feeling of fluids draining from his hydraulics was odd, but not unpleasant. He watched Ratchet head back across the repair bay and disappear into his office, presumably to update Wheeljack's maintenance record.

He cycled his intakes in a sigh, his processor feeling slow and sluggish. He was beginning to regret not having attempted recharge the night before, and wished he'd at least stopped to refuel on his way to repair bay this morning.

Ratchet returned in what seemed like no time at all, and initiated the flush of his systems. The sensation of warm oil moving languidly through his lines was incredibly soporific, and Wheeljack soon found himself struggling to stay online.

The next thing he knew, Ratchet was leaning over him, murmuring his name in soft tones.

"What happened?" he asked muzzily.

"When I came back to check on you, you'd slipped into recharge," Ratchet explained. "Since I didn't need you online for the procedure, I finished up while you were out."

"Oh," he said, checking his internal chronometer. He'd been offline for over a joor. He made to sit up, and Ratchet offered him a hand, helping to pull him upright. "So I'm done?"

"You're free to go," Ratchet agreed. "How do you feel?"

Wheeljack considered a moment. "Pretty good."

Ratchet smiled. "Go on then, get outta here," he said indulgently.

x.x.x.x.x

Wheeljack left the repair bay feeling better than he had in solar cycles.

The maintenance Ratchet had performed and the downtime required to perform it had left Wheeljack feeling refreshed and invigorated. Since his duty shift was only half-over, he decided to report in for the remainder of it and relieve whoever Prowl had roped into covering for him.

The unfortunate mech in question turned out to be Sideswipe. Prowl had probably thought it fitting that Sideswipe be the one to take Wheeljack's place, since he'd taken on Sideswipe's patrol shift with Trailbreaker the day before. Prowl may have also intended it as a punishment for some earlier mischief on Sideswipe's part; Sideswipe was about as fond of monitor duty as he was of patrol duty.

But Sideswipe wasn't the only mech in Command when Wheeljack arrived. Quite a crowd had gathered, including Optimus Prime. Wheeljack soon learned that while he had been occupied in repair bay, Teletraan-1 had picked up some strange new energy readings. Bumblebee and Powerglide had been sent out to discover the source of the readings, and everyone was eagerly awaiting their report.

The two minibots commed in shortly after Wheeljack resumed his shift, revealing that the source of the energy waves was an unusual island.

Upon their return, Powerglide and Bumblebee shared their findings, the most notable being the fact that the island was inhabited by _living_ dinosaurs. If the Autobots were surprised to learn of the existence of creatures they'd been told were extinct, the humans were flabbergasted. Spike in particular seemed especially enthused, and Bumblebee fairly preened as he relayed the details of his discovery to his human friend.

But then Cliffjumper had to chime in with his opinion, like he always did. "We have enough headaches with _Dinobots_, the last thing we need is _dinosaurs,_" he said.

Normally Wheeljack would have ignored the jibe about his creations the way he usually did, but his recent success in working with the Dinobots spurred him to defend them. It seemed a _demonstration_ was in order.

He called in Grimlock, smugly dismissing Huffer's attempt to deride his claims that the Dinobots had improved. Wheeljack was confident Grimlock wouldn't disappoint him. After this demonstration, even the most verbal of the Dinobots' detractors would be forced to mute it for a while.

Grimlock performed flawlessly, much to the amazement of the gathered Autobots. Their impressed reactions were a soothing balm to Wheeljack's battered ego. Spike even cheered for him, which made his circuits flush with pride.

But then everything fell apart.

Slag and Sludge came in, wanting a turn in the spotlight themselves perhaps, or maybe just confused. Wheeljack concluded it was the latter when they haplessly blundered into Grimlock – he'd tried to warn them to look out, but it was already too late – causing Grimlock to misfire.

To his credit, Grimlock tried to take control of his wayward charges the way Wheeljack had taught him. Unfortunately, he was so focused on that effort that he forgot to concentrate on moving carefully in the cramped-to-him surroundings, and his tail struck a console as he turned, showering Grimlock with a cascade of sparks. Startled by the explosion, Sludge stumbled and stepped on Slag's tail, which in turn caused Slag to unleash an uncontrolled burst of flame. As the Autobots dove for cover, Swoop and Snarl came in to investigate all the commotion.

Total chaos ensued. A chain reaction of destruction was set into motion, rapidly gaining momentum. As had happened in the past, the Dinobots promptly forgot their original intentions and began brawling amongst themselves. To Wheeljack's chagrin, Huffer still managed to find time amidst the pandemonium to lob a pointed 'I told you so' in his direction, which only served to remind Wheeljack that _he_ was ultimately responsible for the devastation that was taking place.

Just when he thought it couldn't get any worse, he heard Spike shout in alarm, "Oh no! They're heading toward Teletraan-1!"

He tried calling to the Dinobots again, to Grimlock, but it was no use. They were too caught up in their dispute to heed his commands, and blundering closer to Teletraan-1 by the astrosecond. His spark sank in despair; the _Ark's_ main computer was about to be badly damaged, perhaps even destroyed.

…and it would be all _his_ fault.

He hadn't counted on Trailbreaker intervening with his force field; Wheeljack hadn't even realized Trailbreaker was _there_ until he leapt into action, shielding the Autobots' supercomputer from the Dinobots' reign of devastation.

But his relief was short-lived; Teletraan was safe, but Grimlock and the others continued to flounder around aimlessly, causing further damage to their surroundings. Some of the Autobots began gearing up to put a stop to their rampage by force, to Wheeljack's dismay. He wanted the Dinobots stopped as much as the next mech, but he didn't want to see his creations _hurt_ in the process. The Dinobots weren't Decepticons, willfully wreaking havoc out of sheer malice, they couldn't help themselves – they were just big and clumsy. It made Wheeljack's spark ache to see so much hostility directed toward them.

Fortunately Optimus Prime stepped in before the situation could turn to violence. "Grimlock will bring the other Dinobots under control," he stated confidently.

In his recent reports on their progress, Wheeljack had included some suggestions on the best methods to utilize when dealing with the Dinobots. It was evident from his words that Optimus Prime had read those reports, and taken the advice to spark.

"Grimlock! Stop stumbling around and end this chaos," Prime ordered. "Transform!"

With his leadership role invoked, Grimlock instantly obeyed, and the other Dinobots promptly yielded to Grimlock's commands.

As he knelt alongside Ratchet and Sparkplug to begin repairing the damage the Dinobots had caused, Wheeljack overheard Grimlock apologize to Optimus on behalf of himself and the other Dinobots, and once again a flush of pride and approval suffused his spark.

To Wheeljack's relief, Prime readily accepted the apology. Optimus obviously understood that the Dinobots simply had difficulty operating in close quarters, and didn't blame them _or_ Wheeljack for what had happened.

It was Bumblebee who suggested they send the Dinobots to the newly-discovered island, where they could train in surroundings better suited to accommodate mechs their size.

The Dinobots welcomed the suggestion. Wheeljack knew the constant need to restrict their movements for the sake of their surroundings placed a lot of stress on their simple processors, and that they would function far better – not to mention feel far more at ease – with that constraint lifted.

As he and Ratchet put aside their tools and accompanied the group outside, Wheeljack's feelings of guilt eased a little. With all the repairs left to attend to, he couldn't be spared to accompany them and supervise their training, but Optimus seemed to feel Grimlock was up to handling the task on his own, and Prime's confidence helped to reassure the engineer.

They would be all right without him.

He waved as they departed, the warmth of fondness swelling in his spark.

x.x.x.x.x

By the time Wheeljack, Optimus and Ratchet had returned to Command, most of the 'Bots that had gathered there had cleared out. Hound had stayed, as had Sideswipe, much to Wheeljack's surprise, and both 'Bots were busy clearing away the worst of the debris. Sparkplug, who'd remained behind while they left to bid the Dinobots farewell, was already hard at work.

"What a mess," Ratchet observed as he took in the extent of the damage.

"You said it," Sparkplug replied without looking up.

Guilt flooded his circuits. "I'm sorry, guys," Wheeljack said as he bent to resume his task. "They did so well when I was working with them, I honestly thought they'd gotten better."

Ratchet and Sparkplug both looked up at his melancholy tone.

"It's not _your_ fault, Wheeljack," Ratchet said.

"You didn't make the Dinobots tear up the place," Sparkplug agreed.

"No, I just made the _Dinobots_," he retorted bitterly.

"I seem to recall helping a little with that," Ratchet commented dryly. "But it's not _my_ fault either. It's not even the Dinobots' fault – they're just too big to train here. Optimus said as much."

Sparkplug glanced at Ratchet, then added, "It was a very impressive demonstration. I never would have guessed Grimlock could be so disciplined. It was obvious you'd been working with him."

"Obviously not hard enough," he muttered.

"All you can do is your best," Sparkplug replied. "I used to worry that I'd blow things with Spike; that I wasn't up to raising a kid on my own. But I did my best, and he turned out pretty good."

Wheeljack nodded. "I guess that's all any of us can do."

x.x.x.x.x

The repairs didn't take long, which was fortunate, because moments after they were completed Teletraan-1 picked up _another_ energy disturbance. Wheeljack quickly determined the source was some sort of time warp, and Optimus immediately took a group of 'Bots out to investigate.

Two joors and three time warps later, the volcano that housed the _Ark_ became active again, and the true source of their troubles was finally revealed – Dinobot Island. Or more precisely, Dinobot Island being plundered for energy by the Decepticons. Wheeljack was glad he had resumed his shift on the monitors at that point, because it meant he wasn't among those chosen to go along with Optimus Prime to confront the 'Cons.

In the end, everything worked out. All the damages to Command were repaired, the Decepticons were defeated, no 'Bot suffered any serious injuries, and the Dinobots were welcomed back to the _Ark_ as the heroes of the day.

But it had been a _very_ long shift. And he'd only served _half_ of it!

Wheeljack was thankful now for the maintenance appointment that had excused him from duty that morning and afforded him the opportunity to snatch some much-needed recharge. He was _exhausted_. He hadn't had time to stop and refuel since the day before, so when his shift ended and the fuss finally died down, he headed straight for the common room for a cube.

It was pretty crowded, as it usually was following a battle. Fortunately, by the time he arrived most of the gathered mechs had already dispensed their rations and were sitting around chatting as they consumed them, so he was able to acquire his own ration fairly quickly. In a departure from his usual habit, he downed the entire cube the moment it hit his hands.

"Looked like you really needed that," a familiar voice commented from behind him.

Wheeljack turned to find a smiling Trailbreaker, who had apparently just arrived for his own refueling.

"Yeah," he replied wearily. "Been a long day."

"No kidding," Trailbreaker agreed, turning away to dispense a cube of his own. "Dinosaurs, Dinobots, and Decepticons, with a couple time warps thrown in for variety. Never a dull moment."

Trailbreaker's words reminded him of something he'd forgotten. "Uh, yeah, about that…" he began hesitantly.

Trailbreaker turned back to face him again, a full cube in hand, evidently intrigued by his tone. "What?"

Feeling suddenly awkward, Wheeljack said, "I…I wanted to thank you. You know, for…for shielding Teletraan."

"Hey, no problem," Trailbreaker replied agreeably. "It's what I do."

"Yeah, I know," Wheeljack said haltingly, "But if you hadn't…"

_Teletraan-1 might have been destroyed. The Dinobots might have ended up getting scrapped. And everyone would've blamed _me_._

He reached for Trailbreaker's free hand, gripping it in his own, meeting his optics with as sincere a gaze as he could muster, trying to _will_ Trailbreaker to understand. "I mean it. _Thank you._"

"Aw, it wasn't anything," Trailbreaker replied, ducking his helm modestly, both pleased and embarrassed by Wheeljack's response. "I know you feel responsible when the Dinobots act up. Anyway, I was glad to do it. Glad I could do something to help."

Wheeljack nodded gratefully.

"After all," Trailbreaker added, subspacing the energon cube to free his other hand and laying it lightly against Wheeljack's chestplate, touching the spot directly above his spark chamber in a surprisingly tender gesture, "I still owe you one."

Wheeljack was touched and more than a little flustered by Trailbreaker's words, by his actions, by the _look_ he was giving him. Trailbreaker hadn't saved Teletraan-1 solely out of duty; that much was obvious.

He'd done it for _Wheeljack_.

And his hand on Wheeljack's chestplate – not a form of contact shared between casual acquaintances – was an equally obvious reminder of what Wheeljack still owed _him_.

"R-right," Wheeljack stammered, a flurry of conflicting emotions warring in his spark. "But still, you – Thanks."

Trailbreaker opened his mouth to respond, but whatever he planned to say, Wheeljack never learned; Trailbreaker tensed before the words could leave his vocalizer. From the sudden stiffening of his posture, Wheeljack surmised he'd gotten a comm.

His supposition was borne out when Trailbreaker's stance relaxed again and he said, "Sorry, I have to go. Hound's got this project he's working on, and he made me promise I'd help him with it."

"Oh," Wheeljack replied, belatedly realizing he was still holding Trailbreaker's hand, releasing it abruptly. "Okay."

"See you around?" Trailbreaker asked hopefully.

"Sure," he agreed.

Trailbreaker smiled. "Great," he said. "See you then."

After watching Trailbreaker depart, Wheeljack turned to leave himself – and came face-to-face with a seriously torqued-off Ratchet.

The incensed expression on the medic's faceplate had Wheeljack fighting the urge to duck. Ratchet looked absolutely _livid_, his optics blazing with barely-suppressed ire. The sheer force of anger radiating from him was enough to make Wheeljack fall back a step.

"My office," Ratchet ordered. "_Now._"


	15. Ardor

**Title: **After Atlantis  
**Obligatory Disclaimer:** I don't own Transformers.  
**Warnings: **PTSD angst, references to rape, references to sex, sexual situations.  
**Author's Note:** The chapter in which things start to get a little...complicated. Sh*t, meet fan.

**Chapter 15: Ardor**

Wheeljack trailed meekly down the corridor, following in the enraged medic's wake.

They passed several 'Bots on the way to repair bay, all of whom were quick to stand aside once they caught a glimpse of Ratchet's stormy expression. One or two cast sympathetic looks at Wheeljack as he slunk past, correctly identifying him as the unhappy source of Ratchet's ire.

What Wheeljack couldn't understand was _why_ Ratchet was so angry with him.

He knew Ratchet had a temper – who didn't? – and he was fairly accustomed to being its target, usually in the aftermath of an explosion or when he'd gotten himself damaged doing something particularly stupid or careless. Wheeljack understood that. Ratchet's primary function was to put mechs back together, so naturally he'd take issue with them fragging themselves up.

But he didn't understand how he'd earned Ratchet's fury _this_ time. He couldn't begin to guess what he might have done to invoke it. Refueling? _Talking?_

When they arrived at the repair bay, Ratchet stalked swiftly across the room toward his office.

Wheeljack hung back. "Uh…Ratch..?" he inquired tentatively.

Ratchet whirled on him, looking ready to explode. "_What?_" he demanded. "You heard me. In my office,_ now_." He gave a curt jerk of his helm in the direction of the door.

Most 'Bots would have obeyed immediately; such was Ratchet's tone. But Wheeljack couldn't move; it was as if his feet had been welded to the floor. The thought of being confined in a small room with an incensed Ratchet sent an uncharacteristic flicker of fear through his spark.

Ratchet wouldn't _hurt_ him, would he?

"…what did I do?" he asked weakly.

Ratchet twitched, arrested by his tone. The faint quaver in Wheeljack's vocalizer, the look of bewildered apprehension in his optics, suddenly seemed to register on the irate medic.

With a visible effort, Ratchet reined in his temper. "Come into my office, and we'll talk about it," he said, managing a strained but more moderate tone.

Wheeljack hesitated, uncertain.

Ratchet heaved a gusty sigh through his vents. "Or we could discuss it out here," he said acerbically. "I assumed you'd want some privacy, since –"

Wheeljack tensed. This was about _that_? "Okay, I'm going," he relented hastily. He entered the office without further argument.

Ratchet followed him in, punching in the locking code with swift, angry jabs of his fingers.

Wheeljack watched him with more apprehension that he cared to admit, struggling to convince his clenching spark that everything was okay. Even angry, Ratchet was still _Ratchet_.

_Ratchet isn't going to hurt me. Ratchet would never hurt me. Ratchet won't –_

"Sit down, 'Jack," Ratchet said, moving past him to take a seat behind the desk.

Wheeljack didn't want to sit. He wanted to be anywhere but _here_. He could feel his spark ricocheting about in its chamber like a trapped, frantic animal. What on Cybertron was _wrong_ with him? He hadn't felt this terrified, this _helpless_ since – since –

A low, thready keen escaped his vocalizer.

Ratchet looked up at the small, desperate sound, his optics widening. "Oh, _slag,_" he cursed. His disgruntled expression was overtaken by a look of profound remorse as he leapt to his feet, coming back around the desk to lay a comforting hand on Wheeljack's shoulder-strut.

Wheeljack flinched.

"'Jack, I'm sorry," Ratchet said, his vocalizer thick with regret. "It's all right, everything's all right, I promise. I was just – _dammit!_" He paused to collect himself, then continued soothingly, "It's okay, really. You're fine, everything's fine."

Wheeljack stared at his hands, once again beset by violent tremors. "What's wrong with me?" he asked, wincing inwardly at how tiny and plaintive the question sounded.

"It's an echo," Ratchet explained. "Something about the situation triggered an associative link in your memory core that brought up –"

"Oh," Wheeljack interrupted, not wanting to hear Ratchet say it out loud.

"Are you all right?" Ratchet asked.

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I'm fine."

In truth, he still felt pretty shaky, but he wasn't about to admit it.

"Then have a seat," Ratchet said. He turned his back to him, walking back to his desk while Wheeljack settled into one of the visitor's chairs. Resting his palms flat against the smooth surface, Ratchet leaned heavily against it, his helm bowing wearily, as if a great weight rested on his shoulder-struts.

Wheeljack regarded him curiously. "You okay, Ratch?" he inquired with concern.

"Yeah," Ratchet said, straightening. "Sorry about that."

"What happened?"

"_You_ happened, you little glitch," Ratchet snapped irritably. "I swear, I can't turn my back on you for an astrosecond without you getting into trouble."

"Me? What did I do?"

"At least now I don't have to wonder who the mystery mech was," Ratchet continued as if he hadn't spoken, "or should I say, _is_?"

Wheeljack stared at him in confusion. "What are you talking about?"

Ratchet pinned him with a no-nonsense glare. "Trailbreaker."

"…oh."

"'_Oh,'_ is right," Ratchet retorted. "So I'm right in thinking that _he's_ the one you –?"

"Yeah," Wheeljack admitted sheepishly, ducking his helm.

"Not my first guess, I'll admit," Ratchet said contemplatively. "But it does make a certain amount of sense. Even if it _was_ a bad idea to begin with."

Wheeljack fidgeted uncomfortably, wondering where Ratchet was going with this. He didn't really want to have to answer questions about…that night.

"You _do_ agree it was a bad idea, don't you 'Jack?" Ratchet inquired, leaning close and tilting his helm, trying to catch Wheeljack's optics. "You indicated as much to me last time we talked about it."

"Yeah," he agreed, fighting the urge to squirm in his seat like a scolded sparkling. "It was a bad idea."

Ratchet nodded. "That's what I thought," he said, straightening. "It's funny, though…" he added with mock thoughtfulness, moving back towards his desk again. "It looked to me almost as if Trailbreaker was under the impression that you were…I dunno, _involved_, or something."

Wheeljack averted his optics, avoiding his friend's pointed glare.

"Why do you suppose that is, 'Jack?" Ratchet inquired.

He shrugged awkwardly. "I dunno."

Ratchet's optics blazed with anger. "You're still fragging him, aren't you?" he accused.

His helm jerked up. "What? _No!_"

Ratchet's hands clenched briefly, and he seemed to be fighting to hold himself back. "You don't have to lie to me, Wheeljack," he said with exaggerated patience. "It's perfectly understandable that you'd want to regain a sense of – _control_ after what Starscream did to you. It's a completely normal, _misguided_ response..."

Wheeljack regarded him quizzically, lost again. "I'm not lying," he said.

"You're not," Ratchet repeated dubiously.

"No," he insisted. "It was just the one…time."

"You haven't interfaced with him since, and you're not planning to?"

Wheeljack shook his helm. "No."

"Because when you did, it didn't go well," Ratchet persisted. "You didn't like it, weren't ready for it. Right?"

He nodded.

"Does _Trailbreaker_ know that?"

Wheeljack hesitated, guiltily avoiding his optics. "…not exactly."

"'Jack," Ratchet said reprovingly, "You can't _do_ that."

"What else _could_ I do, Ratchet?" he asked defensively. "I'm the one who – and he thinks I –!"

"You could try telling him the truth," Ratchet suggested mildly.

"_No,_" he replied hastily, stiffening in alarm.

"Why not?" Ratchet inquired, sounding obnoxiously _reasonable_.

_Because he might tell everyone on the _Ark_._

_Because he'd be disgusted that he ever touched me._

_Because I don't want him to know how pathetic I am._

"I don't want to," he muttered quietly.

"So you're just going to, what, keep leading him on?" Ratchet demanded, beginning to sound angry again. "What happens next time he wants to interface with you? Ever think of that, 'Jack? Sooner or later he's going to expect you to open up for him; what do you plan to do then?"

"…said he didn't want to rush," he muttered, vocal indicators barely flickering.

"Oh, so maybe he won't ask _right away_," Ratchet speculated, a hint of sarcasm creeping into his tone, growing stronger with every word. "And when he does, maybe you'll be able to come up with some excuse to put him off a while longer. Pit, it could be _orns_ before you finally have to own up and admit you were _never interested in him in the first place_ – who knows, by _then_ he might even be in _love_ with you!"

Wheeljack jolted to his feet, ready to level a sharp retort – but no words came.

"I-it's not like that," he argued weakly. "I just…I just need some more time, that's all."

Ratchet regarded him with a canny expression. "Time to tell him the truth, or time to come up with a more convincing lie?" he asked.

"It's not – you don't _understand_ –" he protested.

"I think I understand just fine," Ratchet retorted viciously. "You think it's easier to toy with another mech's emotions than it is to face up to your own." He shook his helm disapprovingly. "I realize you're going through a rough time right now, 'Jack, but that's pretty fragging selfish of you. What you're doing to Trailbreaker is wrong_,_ and you damn well know it."

"It's none of his slagging business!" he argued vociferously, his circuits heating with affront. "Why should I have to tell him anything?"

"Because it's not good for either of you!" Ratchet exploded. "You tell him the truth, Wheeljack, or you end it! Because if you don't, _I_ will."

Wheeljack's optics widened in shock. "You wouldn't," he whispered.

"Try me," Ratchet replied grimly.

"You wouldn't," he repeated more firmly, shaking his helm in disbelief. "You wouldn't dare do that to me."

"I will, if I have to," Ratchet said.

Wheeljack stared at him, stunned. "You can't _do_ that," he protested. "If you do – I _swear_ Ratchet, if you do, I will _never_ forgive you!"

Ratchet looked pained. "It's for your own good, 'Jack. One way or the other, you have to end it. If you don't… it'll only get worse!"

Anger flared up in his spark, burning hot and bright as magnesium. "How could you even _think_ of doing that to me, _betraying_ me like that?" he demanded. "You're supposed to be my _friend!_ I _trusted_ you!"

"I _am_ your friend!" Ratchet shouted back. "Dammit, Wheeljack, what do you expect me to do? Just sit back and _watch_ while you self-destruct like one of your slagging inventions? When will you get it through your thick plating that I'm trying to _help_ you? Stop fighting me! Stop pushing me away!"

"_You_ pushed _me_ away, Ratchet! Remember?" he snapped. "'_I wanted you to come to me,_' you said! Well, I _did_ come to you, and _you turned me down!_ So don't give me that slag about pushing you away! _You_ pushed first."

"Have you fried your logic circuits?" Ratchet retorted. "Do you honestly think it would have been _any_ different if I'd let you try your little _experiment_ out on _me _instead? Do you think it wouldn't have turned out _exactly_ the same way?"

"It _wouldn't_ have!" he insisted, vocal indicators flashing, a hint of static creeping into his vocalizer. "It would have been okay! E-even if it _wasn't_, it would _still_ have – if it'd been _you, _you would have _known_, you'd have _stopped_ before –"

Ratchet was staring at him with a pole-axed expression. "You really believe that," he said softly.

"Of course I believe it!" he cried. "It's _true!_ You _know_ it is!"

A faint glow suffused Ratchet's optics, casting shadows across his faceplate.

"It's _your_ fault," he said accusingly, like a petulant sparkling. "If you hadn't – if you'd just –"

"Done what?" Ratchet asked quietly, closing on him. "_This?_"

His energy field crashed over Wheeljack like a tsunami.

x.x.x.x.x

It all happened so _fast_.

One moment they were arguing, and the next…

The next, Ratchet's energy field was slamming into him, and his own was lashing out to meet it, hot and crackling and _eager_. For a few astroseconds the two fields clashed and juddered unpleasantly against one another, but then they abruptly fell into sync, engulfing both mechs in a wave of electric ecstasy.

Wheeljack's internal cooling fans roared to life as his core temperature shot into the red, the sound nearly drowning out Ratchet's low, needy moan.

The next thing Wheeljack knew, he was lying in an ungainly sprawl across Ratchet's desk with Ratchet on top of him, one leg hiked around Ratchet's crimson hip plate, both hands buried deep in his circuitry.

Ratchet's hands were similarly occupied within Wheeljack's chassis, and he was demonstrating quite effectively why medics were so often sought after as lovers. Ratchet was stimulating sensors Wheeljack hadn't even known he _had_, and wielding his energy field with the precision of an energon scalpel, slicing in fast and deep.

Wheeljack knew, in some distant part of his processor, that none of this should be happening – he shouldn't be doing this, it was _Ratchet_, and that was _wrong_ somehow – just as he was distantly aware that his vocalizer was producing some _really_ embarrassing noises, but at the moment he couldn't bring himself to care.

It felt so _good_, after so much pain and frustration and uncertainty and denial, to finally stop thinking, stop hurting, and just _feel_. His moans of pleasure were more like sobs of relief.

He dimly registered Ratchet whispering heatedly into his audial as he groped and fondled every square inch of Wheeljack's frame within reach, repeating his name in low, impassioned tones –_ 'Jack, Primus, 'Jack_ – over and over like a mantra.

There was something odd about that, a vague feeling of _not-quite-right_ that nagged at the back of Wheeljack's CPU, but before he could to pin down the source of it, Ratchet dug his fingers into the gap at the base of his sensor-winglets and sent a sharp, hard pulse through his energy field, bowing Wheeljack's backstruts and pulling a startled shriek of pleasure from his vocalizer as he went tumbling over the brink.

That was when Wheeljack decided to abandon all semblance of coherent thought, and simply surrendered himself to sensation.

His optics flickered and offlined as he slumped back onto the desk, still shuddering with the aftershocks of pleasure. The movement jostled a stack of datapads balanced near the edge of the desk, sending them slithering to the floor in a clattering cascade.

But Ratchet evidently wasn't finished with him yet. The medic was still greedily exploring every micrometer of his frame with urgent, hungry fingers, a steady stream of affectionate endearments pouring from his vocalizer.

At first Wheeljack caught only brief snatches of Ratchet's whispered words amid the cacophonic symphony of cycling fans, revving engines, heaving intakes, and the slow scrape of metal against metal – _finally together, Jack…dreamed of this…touching you...hearing you moan – _but as more and more of them began to register on his scattered CPU, a faint trickle of unease crept into his spark.

"…don't know how _long_ I've waited for you, 'Jack... how long I've _wanted_ you…"

If only he could _think!_ Ratchet's hands, his fingers, were so _distracting_. They were trailing up his sideseams now, tracing the curve of his windshield as they progressed steadily upward, rubbing and stroking his chestplate, _opening him up –_

Wheeljack's optics onlined abruptly, his spark clenching in panic.

Ratchet was leaning over him, his optics alight with desire, interface cable already in hand, whispering, "…can finally _show_ you…"

"Don't," he said, in a voice so small and frightened it took him an astrosecond to recognize it as his own. "Please, Ratchet, don't."

Ratchet froze, the ardent glow of his optics dwindling as they shifted from Wheeljack's own – wide and frightened – to the cable in his hand and back again, a look of dawning horror spreading over his faceplate.

"Oh, 'Jack," Ratchet whispered, pulling hastily away from him, his expression anguished. "I didn't – I forgot – oh, Primus, I'm so sorry –"

Wheeljack scrambled up from the desk and immediately lunged for the door, a low, terrified keen escaping his vocalizer when he discovered it locked.

"'Jack, wait, don't go, let's talk about this –" Ratchet pleaded as Wheeljack fumbled with the keypad, his hands shaking so badly it took three attempts before he managed to successfully enter the override code.

"'Jack, _please,_" Ratchet begged as the door hissed open.

Wheeljack fled.


	16. Amelioration

**Title: **After Atlantis  
**Obligatory Disclaimer:** I don't own Transformers.  
**Warnings: **PTSD angst.  
**Author's Note: **Thanks to everyone for their wonderfully supportive comments. Things may slow down a bit from here because RL is getting hectic, but I hope to have more up soon.

**Chapter 16: Amelioration**

Wheeljack tore blindly down one of the _Ark's_ many corridors, his processor reeling.

He couldn't – he couldn't _think_. The chaotic tangle of thoughts and emotions currently assailing his CPU were too numerous and complex to process – every attempt returned a fresh barrage of system errors and critical faults: _Abort, Retry, Fail?_

At the core of the tangle, at its very center, was _Ratchet_.

Ratchet. His best friend.

He'd had to get away. Being in Ratchet's presence only exacerbated his confusion. So he'd fled.

He'd taken his internal comm offline after the third consecutive ping, but that was a temporary solution at best. He couldn't maintain comm silence indefinitely, and Ratchet wouldn't allow Wheeljack to ignore him forever. If he couldn't reach Wheeljack by comlink, Ratchet would seek him out personally.

Which meant he couldn't go to his quarters or to his lab. Ratchet would know to look for him there, would find him easily. No door could keep the medic out if he wanted in. As the CMO, Ratchet could override any locking code on the _Ark_.

Therefore the only solution was to keep moving.

Wheeljack wasn't even sure where he was anymore. All the corridors looked the same.

He came to an abrupt halt, glancing around. He was in one of the residential sections, one that seemed vaguely familiar. Had he become so distracted he'd ended up heading straight back to his own quarters anyway, in spite of his determination not to?

"Wheeljack?"

He started and turned, his spark clenching in dread. Had Ratchet found him already–?

Trailbreaker was standing there, regarding him with a look of mild surprise.

"Hey, Trailbreaker," he greeted him, struggling to sound calm and untroubled. "What's up?"

"I was just helping Hound," Trailbreaker replied, gesturing back down the corridor in the direction he'd come. "We decided to call it a night, so I was heading back to my quarters for some recharge."

"Well, don't let me stop you," Wheeljack replied agreeably. "I was just stretching my servos. You have a good night."

"…right, thanks," Trailbreaker replied, frowning in confusion. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, but otherwise made no effort to resume his previous course. For a few astroseconds the two mechs stared at each other in awkward silence.

"Was, uh…was there something you needed?" Trailbreaker asked.

"Who, me?" He forced a laugh. "No, not at all. I'm good."

"Oh. Okay." Trailbreaker hesitated a moment, studying him, then asked, "Are you sure?"

A thread of apprehension shivered through his spark. Was it _that_ obvious something was wrong?

"Yeah, I'm sure," Wheeljack assured him, forcing another laugh. "Why do you ask?"

"No reason," Trailbreaker replied quickly. "It's just, uh…you're standing outside my quarters, and um…you don't live in this section."

A quick glance behind him confirmed Trailbreaker's statement; he was standing almost directly in front of the entrance to the defense strategist's quarters, effectively blocking the door. He abruptly understood Trailbreaker's puzzled reaction to his presence, and why this particular section of the corridor had seemed familiar to him.

"Did you want to come in?" Trailbreaker asked.

He thought fast. In light of their recent conversation, Ratchet probably wouldn't think to look for him here. He had to go _somewhere_. He couldn't wander the corridors all night.

"Maybe just for a klik," he assented with a shrug.

Trailbreaker nodded and keyed in the locking code, stepping back to allow Wheeljack to enter first when the door slid open.

x.x.x.x.x

Trailbreaker's quarters were as tidy as Wheeljack remembered. As he stood looking around uncertainly, Trailbreaker said, "Have a seat, if you want."

Quarters aboard the _Ark_ were relatively small and utilitarian. The only available places to sit were the chair in front of the desk, and the berth.

Wheeljack opted for the chair.

Trailbreaker took a seat on the edge of the berth. "So…" he hazarded.

"So," Wheeljack echoed. "What's this project of Hound's?"

Trailbreaker looked relieved to be provided a neutral topic for conversation. "Oh, that? It's a Quatra board."

"A what?"

"A Quatra board. It's a game they used to play in the Towers, back on Cybertron," Trailbreaker explained. "They don't exist here on Earth, and there probably aren't many left on Cybertron since the war started, but Hound found some pictures in an old data file, and he's been trying to make one. For Mirage. You know, as a gift. Hound says he's homesick, figures it'll cheer him up."

"Oh," Wheeljack said. "That's nice of him."

"Yeah, he's been working on it for orns, collecting Earth materials to make the board and all the pieces, carving them out…"

"And you've been helping him?" he asked.

"Yeah, sort of," Trailbreaker said. "Not with the actual making it part; he wanted to do that himself. He's got it mostly finished now, but he can't give it to Mirage yet, because he doesn't know how to play. It's a two-mech game, and probably the only other 'Bot on the _Ark_ who'd know how to play is Tracks."

"And naturally Hound doesn't want to give Mirage a gift that would make him spend less time with him, and more time with Tracks," Wheeljack concluded.

"Exactly," Trailbreaker said, grinning. "So Hound's got to learn how to play it himself, and for that, he needs someone to play with, for practice."

"And that's you," he surmised.

"That's me," Trailbreaker agreed. "To be honest, I think it's the most boring game ever invented. A single match can go on for days, and there are all these special rules that only apply in specific situations…" he trailed off with a shrug, "But Hound needed for my help, so I'm helping. He's my best friend; how could I say no?"

_His best friend._

Wheeljack's shoulder-struts slumped, his helm bowing dejectedly.

Ratchet had been _his_ best friend. He'd known him for countless vorns. They'd been friends for so long Ratchet was practically a part of him, like an extension of his own frame. They'd created the Dinobots together. They'd worked side by side. They _knew_ each other, inside and out, every circuit and servo.

Wheeljack couldn't conceive of a world in which Ratchet wasn't his best friend. He _trusted_ Ratchet, shell and spark, trusted him more than any mech he knew. Trust wasn't something Wheeljack gave easily, but Ratchet had earned his.

Until tonight.

Tonight, Ratchet had threatened to betray him, to reveal secrets shared in confidence. Wheeljack had felt as if the ground beneath his feet had suddenly crumbled away, leaving him helpless and adrift. For the first time ever, he wondered if he'd made a terrible mistake, if he'd been wrong to trust Ratchet so implicitly.

"So, uh…" Trailbreaker began hesitantly, interrupting Wheeljack's thoughts and breaking the long silence that had risen up between them. "D-did you want to..?"

He glanced up distractedly, "Huh?"

Trailbreaker looked embarrassed. "It's just…I know you said you wanted to wait and all, but…" he trailed off, laughing nervously. "I mean, here you are, and…well, I figure you didn't decide to stop by just 'cause you wanted to talk about Hound," he concluded.

Wheeljack stared at him blankly.

"…or maybe you did," Trailbreaker amended uncertainly.

Wheeljack's spark quailed as he abruptly caught on. He should have anticipated this when Trailbreaker asked him in! Naturally Trailbreaker would assume the reason Wheeljack had shown up unannounced outside his quarters late at night was because he wanted to interface! He'd been so preoccupied with his goal of avoiding Ratchet, he'd failed to consider the implications of accepting Trailbreaker's invitation.

And now the mech in question was regarding him with open curiosity; a faint puzzled frown curving his lip-components as he tried unsuccessfully to ascertain some hint of the emotional state concealed beneath Wheeljack's masked faceplate.

He activated his vocalizer to offer some excuse, to reassert that he'd merely been passing by and had only stopped in for a quick chat –

All that emerged was a burst of static.

Two pairs of optics widened at the sound; Trailbreaker's with surprise, Wheeljack's with alarm.

"Are you all right?" Trailbreaker asked.

He quickly reset his vocalizer, not wanting to humiliate himself any further. "Sure."

Trailbreaker looked concerned. "No you're not," he said. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he replied with a shrug. "Just a glitch. I'm fine."

"Was it something I said–?"

"No," he said hastily, shaking his helm. "No, you didn't do anything; you're fine."

Trailbreaker met his optics squarely, giving him look that was frankly dubious.

Wheeljack lowered his gaze. "…it's just been a long night," he muttered.

"Is it because of what happened today with the Dinobots? You worried about them?" Trailbreaker asked. His optics widened slightly as a thought occurred to him. "Did someone say something to you–?"

"No, no, they're fine," he said quellingly. "Everything's fine, really."

Trailbreaker was silent a long moment, studying him thoughtfully.

Wheeljack sat quietly, fighting the urge to fidget, trying to project an air of confidence and ease.

"You really _did_ come just to talk, didn't you?" Trailbreaker asked, soft and surprised.

Wheeljack twitched, startled. "What? No, I was just passing through the section –"

"It's okay," Trailbreaker interrupted him. "If you just want to talk, that's fine. I don't mind."

Wheeljack relaxed marginally, a small degree of tension easing from his taut servos.

"And if there's something you _need_ to talk about," Trailbreaker offered tentatively, meeting his optics with a steady, serious gaze, "I'll listen. I'd be happy to. I…I kinda _like_ that you'd wanna to talk to me."

"Thanks," he replied, surprised and oddly touched by the offer.

"So what's wrong?" Trailbreaker asked.

"Nothing," he replied evasively. "I'm just –" He halted mid-denial, a wave of guilt sweeping over him.

_What you're doing to Trailbreaker is __wrong,__ and you know it._

He looked at Trailbreaker, sitting there on the edge of the berth, his posture attentive, his expression politely concerned, and suddenly he couldn't bring himself to vocalize another lie.

_You could try telling him the truth._

"I…" he began hesitantly.

_I can't. I can't say it. I can't tell him._

He cycled a sigh through his intakes, his shoulder-struts drooping, and shook his helm. "I don't want to talk about it," he admitted.

"Okay," Trailbreaker said, nodding. "That's fine. We can talk about something else."

"All right," he agreed.

"Oh!" Trailbreaker said, like he'd suddenly remembered something. "_Shoot_."

"What?"

"Well, it's…it's not that I don't _want_ to talk, it's just…I didn't realize it'd gotten so late," Trailbreaker explained apologetically. "I'm supposed to do another a patrol tomorrow, and that battle today kinda wiped me out. I need to get some recharge, or I'll really feel it in the morning."

"Oh," he said. "That's okay, I understand."

"We could talk tomorrow," Trailbreaker offered hopefully. "My patrol's scheduled for the afternoon, so maybe we could meet for energon in the morning?"

"Yeah, sure," he agreed, getting to his feet. "I'll just get out of your way."

Trailbreaker got up too, and walked him the few strides' distance to the door, activating the mechanism as they reached it. "I'm glad you stopped by," he said. "It was nice talking to you."

The door slid open obligingly with a faint hiss. Wheeljack stared out into the empty corridor it revealed with something akin to dread. He knew he should just thank Trailbreaker and leave, but he couldn't force his feet to move.

Ratchet was out there somewhere, probably still looking for him. He couldn't go back to his quarters. He couldn't go back to his lab. He couldn't spend the night wandering the corridors aimlessly – he needed to recharge, too. And he couldn't leave the _Ark_ – that would require providing an explanation to the other officers that he couldn't afford to give.

It was time for him to leave…and he had nowhere to go.

The quiet keen that escaped his vocalizer was faint but audible in the hush of Trailbreaker's quarters.

Before he could react, an arm was wrapped gently around his shoulder-strut, and he was pulled in close to the comforting warmth of another's chassis.

"C'mere," Trailbreaker said softly, releasing the keypad and guiding him over to the berth as the door slid shut again, urging Wheeljack to sit down beside him. An astrosecond later the startled inventor was drawn into a full embrace, a soothing hand rubbing his backstrut.

"It's okay," Trailbreaker murmured, "It's gonna be okay."

It was if a floodgate had been opened.

The next thing Wheeljack knew, he was clinging to the larger mech and wailing like a lost sparkling, his vocalizer spitting out bursts of static and ragged, broken screeches of feedback, his vocal indicators flashing an uneven semaphore of misery and desolation.

All the while, Trailbreaker held him, murmuring meaningless reassurances and soothing nonsense, stroking his helm and backstruts comfortingly.

Wheeljack wasn't sure how long they remained like that, how long his surrender into total dissolution lasted, but gradually the raging tide of emotional floodwaters calmed and began to recede.

He wasn't sure how he ended up lying on his side in the berth with Trailbreaker stretched out alongside him, arms still wound loosely around his waist components, but by then he was too drained and exhausted to question it.

His processor was powering down, his thoughts growing heavy and lethargic. Trailbreaker was a solid, soothing presence at his back, the assuaging warmth of his chassis and the familiar hum of his working systems lulling Wheeljack into a state of calm.

He slipped into recharge feeling safer than he had in cycles.


	17. Adjustment

**Title: **After Atlantis  
**Obligatory Disclaimer:** I don't own Transformers. This chapter contains minor references to the G1 cartoon episode _"Master Builder." _Additional episodes will be referenced in future chapters.  
**Warnings: **None really. Social awkwardness, bit of angst.  
**Author's Note: **Many apologies for the delay in updating. I had extremely limited computer access last week, and a weekend filled with family obligations.

**Chapter 17: Adjustment**

Upon completion of its recharge cycle, Wheeljack's CPU initiated a reboot, bringing his slumbering systems back online.

The first sight to meet his bleary optics as he roused was a pale green blob barely an arm's length away from his faceplate. When he refreshed them, the blob came into focus, resolving itself into a tiny, round cactus housed in a gaily-colored pot.

Wheeljack didn't own any Earth plants. Where was he? Whose quarters, whose _berth_ was he in?

Quickly delving into his cache, he located and accessed his most recent memory files, and the events of the night before came flooding back to him.

Ratchet. Trailbreaker. His complete and utter breakdown.

He offlined his optics, suppressing a groan.

Behind him, Trailbreaker stirred. The defense strategist's arms were still wrapped around his waist components in a loose embrace. Wheeljack half-turned to face him, reactivating his optics a scant astrosecond before Trailbreaker onlined his own.

"Hi," Trailbreaker said softly.

"Hey," he replied, vocal indicators barely flickering.

A faint smile curved Trailbreaker's lip components. "This is nice."

"Coming online?" Wheeljack asked bemusedly.

"Coming online…and seeing you," Trailbreaker replied, his optics emitting a faint glow.

"Oh," he said, a flush of embarrassment heating his circuits.

"Feeling better this morning?" Trailbreaker asked.

Wheeljack considered that for a moment. "…I think so."

"You were pretty upset last night," Trailbreaker commented, his tone asking the question his statement politely avoided.

"Yeah," he replied uncomfortably. He couldn't very well deny it, and he had to offer _some_ explanation. "I, uh…"

Trailbreaker made an encouraging noise, shifting a hand from the Wheeljack's waist components to his upper arm, rubbing gently.

"I…sorta had an argument with Ratchet," he admitted reluctantly.

He figured it was safe to reveal that much. It was hardly a secret; several 'Bots had seen them in the corridor last night on their way to the repair bay. Even without knowing the details, it would have been obvious Ratchet was wound up about _something_, and that that _something_ involved Wheeljack.

Trailbreaker looked puzzled, his expression clearly stating, _That's all?_ without him uttering a word. "Must've been some argument," he said. "You an' Ratchet always seemed tight; I figured you were really good friends."

"Yeah," Wheeljack replied bitterly. "So did I."

"_Oh_," Trailbreaker said with understanding, drawing out the sound. "It was _that_ kinda fight."

Wheeljack nodded miserably.

"No wonder it got to you, listening to me talk about me an' Hound," Trailbreaker mused.

He half shrugged, chagrined by the reminder of his lapse in self-control.

"You'll work it out," Trailbreaker said reassuringly. "Even the best of friends fight sometimes. It doesn't mean you're not friends anymore."

"What if it does?" Wheeljack asked bleakly.

Seemingly compelled by his tone, Trailbreaker slipped his arms back around Wheeljack's waist components, drawing him close. "Was he right?" he asked.

"Right..?"

"About whatever it was you argued about," Trailbreaker clarified. "Was he right?"

"He thinks he is," Wheeljack responded dejectedly. "But he…he doesn't _understand_. And I..."

"Yeah..?" Trailbreaker encouraged.

_I don't know if I trust him anymore._

Wheeljack shook his helm. "I don't wanna talk about it," he muttered.

"Maybe you both just need some time to cool off," Trailbreaker suggested, his hand drifting down to stroke Wheeljack's hip plate.

"Yeah, maybe," he murmured, distracted by the stroking. _He probably wants to interface now_, he thought resignedly. _Guess I owe it to him, after last night._ He shifted his nearer leg slightly, granting Trailbreaker greater access to his more sensitive components.

"Feel like getting some energon?" Trailbreaker asked.

Wheeljack looked up in surprise, meeting his optics. "…yeah," he said after a startled moment, confused but relieved. "Yeah, okay."

Trailbreaker released him and rose, stretching his servos, then turned and offered him a hand. "I don't know about you, but I could use a cube," he chuckled. "You may have made me more efficient, but I feel like I'm running on fumes."

The proposal appealed to Wheeljack a lot more than the one he'd been expecting, so he accepted the proffered hand readily, letting Trailbreaker pull him to his feet. "I wouldn't say no to some energon," he assented, vocal indicators flashing agreeably.

"Great," Trailbreaker said. "Let's go."

x.x.x.x.x

The common room was nearly empty when Wheeljack and Trailbreaker arrived. Most of the 'Bots assigned to earlier shifts had already refueled and departed, and the 'Bots with later shifts wouldn't begin arriving for at least another joor. The two mechs acquired their rations and settled at an empty table to consume them.

"So what's on the agenda for today?" Trailbreaker asked conversationally, taking a sip of energon from his cube.

"A weapon," Wheeljack replied. "The humans want something they can use to protect themselves from the Decepticons."

"We do that," Trailbreaker said, frowning. "What do they need a weapon for?"

"For when we're too busy, or too far away to get there in time, I guess," Wheeljack said. "I don't know the details; Optimus and Ironhide handled the negotiations. I'm just supposed to build it."

"Any ideas yet?" Trailbreaker asked.

"A few," he replied, taking a sip from his cube. "I'll think of something."

"I'm sure you will," Trailbreaker said encouragingly, reaching across the table to take Wheeljack's hand in his own. "And whatever you come up with, I know it'll be amazing."

Wheeljack stared at the hand covering his own, feeling flustered. Trailbreaker's words were kind, flattering even, but his touch made him feel vaguely uneasy.

Trailbreaker, it seemed, was a very _tactile_ sort of mech. He seemed to want to touch Wheeljack constantly, in all manner of circumstances. The other day in the washracks, last night in his quarters, this morning in the berth. He'd even laid a hand against Wheeljack's backstrut, right between the sensor winglets – a highly sensitive area – as they made their way to the common room.

And now he was holding his hand again.

Wheeljack wasn't in the habit of touching other mechs so freely. He'd been designed to engineer and repair complex mechanical devices, and had far more sensors in his hands than the average mech. Not as many as a medic, of course, but enough to make excessive touching potentially very…personal.

_He probably doesn't even realize,_ he thought. Aloud he said, "Thanks."

"I've got to get going," Trailbreaker said, downing the last of his energon. "Sunstreaker's escorting me today, and he gets testy if you keep him waiting."

He nodded, "I can believe it." Sunstreaker had a notoriously short temper.

Trailbreaker got to his feet, retaining Wheeljack's hand long enough to give it an extra squeeze before letting go. "I'll see you later, okay? Good luck with the inventing!"

"Later," he echoed, giving a weak wave as Trailbreaker departed.

_Maybe he _does _know_, Wheeljack speculated, resuming his previous train of thought. He was certain Trailbreaker hadn't touched him so frequently _prior_ to their interface. In fact up until that point, he couldn't remember Trailbreaker touching him at all. Every instance in recent recollection had taken place _after_ that night.

Which wasn't so odd, in and of itself. Wheeljack had accepted his request for an interface once, and Trailbreaker had every reason to believe he might do so again. If Trailbreaker had been actively pursing that goal, all the touching would have been perfectly understandable.

What made his behavior strange was how often Trailbreaker touched him when interfacing was clearly _not_ his primary goal.

Wheeljack didn't know what to make of it. He felt continually on edge whenever they were alone together, endlessly awaiting a request that always seemed imminent, but never actually arrived. It was confusing, distracting, and mildly unnerving.

But as perplexing as the near-constant touching was, it was also…kind of nice. Each touch was like a small reassurance, comforting in a way Wheeljack wasn't accustomed to being comforted. Every little stroke and caress seemed to transmit an unspoken message – _I'm here for you. I've got your back._

The effect was…strangely soothing.

Subspacing the remainder of his cube, Wheeljack got to his feet and headed for Command.

x.x.x.x.x

The atmosphere in the _Ark's_ command center was unusually light-sparked that morning.

Optimus Prime was there, as was Spike. The human boy was teaching the Autobot leader about an Earth game called "basketball," and Optimus appeared to be enjoying the lesson immensely.

Hearing the Prime laugh was a rare pleasure, and the sound of it warmed Wheeljack's spark. The burden of leadership was a heavy one, but Optimus had borne it for countless vorns without complaint. If anyone deserved a few joors off to enjoy a playful diversion, it was Optimus Prime.

The sound of their game provided a cheerful backdrop while Wheeljack worked, reviewing the specifications the humans had requested for their new weapon. It had to be powerful, mobile, and operable by both manual and remote control. Beyond that, Wheeljack was limited only by his own imagination.

He'd begun to ponder the various possibilities when Grapple and Hoist arrived, pushing a cart loaded with what Wheeljack surmised was a scale model of Grapple's latest design. The brief glimpse he was afforded looked very impressive, and he said as much to the architect as they passed him on their way to present it to Optimus.

Wheeljack decided his impression had been accurate when he overheard the pair explaining what the model was – a solar power tower – and how much energy a full-sized version would produce. Back on Cybertron, Grapple would have been hailed as a genius for his creation.

Unfortunately, they were on Earth, and Wheeljack immediately identified the potential complication Grapple and Hoist had failed to take into account: such an abundant source of energy would be irresistible to the Decepticons. Building Grapple's tower would be like waving energon goodies in front of a sparkling. The possibility had evidently occurred to Optimus as well; while acknowledging the brilliance of the design, Prime denied Grapple's request to construct it.

Grapple accepted the decision meekly, looking crestfallen. Whether Hoist – the more assertive and vocal of the two – would have argued, Wheeljack never found out, because at that moment Teletraan-1 announced that Powerglide had been shot down by Decepticons while on patrol.

His first thought was for Trailbreaker, who was also presently out on patrol. Wheeljack hoped Trailbreaker's route had proved safer than the one Powerglide had chosen.

An astrosecond later, he chided himself for worrying – Trailbreaker had a powerful force field to shield himself, and Sunstreaker was with him besides. Powerglide had been patrolling alone.

Hoist promptly volunteered himself and Grapple to go and assist the downed Autobot plane. Much to Wheeljack's surprise, Optimus allowed it. Grapple occasionally helped out in the repair bay, and Hoist was invaluable when it came to maintenance, but both 'Bots lacked the experience that Ratchet or even Wheeljack had in performing field repairs.

After the pair had departed, Wheeljack made his way over to Prime, asking, "Are you sure you don't want me to go, Optimus?"

"No, Wheeljack," Prime replied. "I need you to work on that weapon for the humans. Grapple and Hoist can take care of Powerglide."

"What about Ratchet?" he asked.

"Ratchet's on leave," Optimus explained. "He put in a request for some time off last night; I approved it this morning."

"Oh," he said. _Ratchet wasn't on duty? _

"I assumed you knew," Prime said, a hint of concern coloring his vocalizer. "Didn't he tell you he was planning to take a few cycles off?"

"He probably mentioned it when I wasn't paying attention," Wheeljack said dismissively, his processor racing. "It's all right, I can cover for him."

"No, I want you working on that weapon," Optimus insisted. "We need it as soon as possible. Grapple, Hoist, and Perceptor can cover for Ratchet in repair bay."

"Yes sir," he said. "I'll get right on it."

There was nothing more to discuss. Wheeljack left Command and headed for his lab.

He had work to do.

Page 6 of 6


	18. Anger

**Title: **After Atlantis  
**Obligatory Disclaimer:** I don't own Transformers. This chapter contains references to the G1 cartoon episodes _"The Master Builder" and "Auto Berserk." _Additional episodes will be referenced in future chapters.  
**Warnings: **PTSD angst, references to rape.  
**Author's Note: **I'd originally planned to post Chapters 17 and 18 together, but when this one ended up taking longer than I'd anticipated, I decided to post Chapter 17 alone rather than keep everyone waiting. This chapter picks up right where the last one left off.

**Chapter 18: Anger**

Two joors later, Wheeljack threw down his datapad in disgust.

He couldn't concentrate. He'd been staring at the same schematic for over a breem, and hadn't made a single notation. He was too distracted by the guilt and anger waging a war within his spark.

Ratchet was _on leave_.

Ratchet may have been a firm believer in making the most of his off-duty joors, but he rarely took additional leave. This would be the first time he'd done so since they'd crash-landed on Earth. The fact that Ratchet's uncharacteristic and seemingly spontaneous decision to take a vacation just _happened_ to coincide with their…falling out wasn't lost on Wheeljack.

An inquiry to Teletraan-1 revealed that Ratchet was presently in his quarters, and had been since the night before. The memory of Ratchet's stricken expression and desperate pleas arose unbidden in Wheeljack's CPU, and for an astrosecond he nearly opened a comm link to him. The thought of his best friend sitting there, alone in the dark, devastated and distraught, tugged at Wheeljack's spark.

He slouched lower in his seat, his helm bowing as guilt surged forth to claim its victory.

That was when he saw the paint scrape.

It was on the inside of his thigh, a bold streak of vibrant crimson marring the muted grey. The sight of it made his circuits burn with mortification. Paint scrapes came in only two varieties: those acquired in battle, and those acquired during especially enthusiastic interfacing. The location of this particular scrape made it painfully obvious how Wheeljack had come by it, and its color significantly narrowed the list of possible mechs who might have given it to him.

And he'd been walking around with it since _last night_.

His spark quailed at the thought. Had Trailbreaker seen it? Had _Optimus Prime?_

Wheeljack fervently hoped not. He hadn't noticed it himself until now, but he'd been pretty distracted lately. He got to his feet quickly, peering down at himself worriedly in an effort to determine if the scrape was still visible when he was standing upright.

As far as he could tell, it wasn't.

He cycled a sigh of relief. Maybe no one had noticed.

Wheeljack was fairly certain Optimus wouldn't have commented even if he _had_ – it wasn't his style – but his interaction with Prime that morning had been relatively brief, and he hadn't been seated at the time.

Trailbreaker was another story. Wheeljack wasn't sure if he'd seen the scrape or not. They'd spent a fair amount of time in each other's company, and Wheeljack hadn't been vertical for all of it.

After a moment's thought, he shook his helm. Given Trailbreaker's penchant for directness and the current status of their relationship – if you could call it that – he was sure Trailbreaker would have gotten angry and demanded an explanation if he had spotted such obvious evidence that Wheeljack had recently interfaced with someone else.

…unless he was trying to be tactful about a delicate subject.

Feeling a renewed burst of guilt, this time for deceiving Trailbreaker, Wheeljack rummaged around until he found a polishing cloth and some solvent, and set about removing the unwanted paint from his thigh plate. As he scrubbed vigorously, his guilt began to shift into anger.

This was all _Ratchet's_ fault.

Wheeljack had only turned to Trailbreaker in the first place because Ratchet had rejected him. If Ratchet had accepted his advances, he wouldn't have been forced to maintain this elaborate charade of a relationship.

But Ratchet _had_ refused him, and Wheeljack had ended up trapped in his own web of lies.

His cleansing strokes became harder, almost vicious. Ratchet had told a few lies of his own.

Ratchet had insisted he was Wheeljack's friend, that he could be trusted, but what Ratchet had _really_ wanted – well, that much was obvious. Ratchet had wanted to frag him, probably from the very beginning.

Wheeljack would have been okay with that, if Ratchet had just come out and _said_ so. But no, Ratchet had _lied_, feigned disinterest, 'faced with every other 'Bot that took his fancy – all the while relying on Wheeljack's own reserved nature to ensure that no one else got what Ratchet had decided was _his_ and his alone.

That is, until Starscream came along.

Wheeljack glanced down and discovered that the swath of scarlet was long gone. He was on the verge of scouring his own paint off, clear down to the base metal.

He tossed the rag aside with far more force than was necessary, recalling with growing resentment how Ratchet had insisted on plugging into him to perform the scan – _reclaiming his territory?_ – how he'd pressed Wheeljack for details about what had happened – _enjoying them vicariously?_ – and how angry – _jealous?_ – he'd become when he suspected Wheeljack might be 'facing with someone else.

He remembered how Ratchet had threatened to reveal the contents of his confidential medical file to Trailbreaker, no doubt hoping Trailbreaker would be so disgusted by the revelation that he never ventured near Wheeljack again.

He thought about how Ratchet had touched him that night in his office; how greedily, how _possessively_. He thought about how forcefully Ratchet had shoved his field into him, like he was staking a claim. He thought about how Ratchet had tried to jack into him.

Wheeljack had truly believed his best friend would show more restraint, more _compassion_ when 'facing him than the unwitting Trailbreaker had, but no. Ratchet had shown _less_.

A hot current of anger simmered through his circuits. _That_ was the worst part of all. He'd trusted Ratchet, and Ratchet had repaid his trust by betraying him in the worst way imaginable. Ratchet knew full well what Starscream had done to him, knew how Wheeljack felt about it, and he'd _still_ –

Fuel churning in his tanks, Wheeljack forced the thought aside, shoving it deep into the furthest recesses of his processor. Incensed, he swept an arm across the surface of the cluttered worktable, sending tools and datapads crashing to the floor.

_No more_, he thought, fighting back the wave of despair that threatened to swallow up his rage, to beat him down and consume him completely.

_No more._

x.x.x.x.x

When he received Prime's comm a couple breems later, Wheeljack planted a hand on the floor to brace himself and forced his feet back under him, rising from where he'd sunk to his knees amid the chaos of scattered and broken equipment.

_*Yeah?*_ he asked shakily, hoping the strain in his vocalizer didn't betray him.

_*Wheeljack, I need a status report,*_ Optimus replied, cutting right to the chase. _*What progress have you made on the humans' weapon? How soon will it be ready?*_

Shame flickered through his circuits. He'd barely made any progress at all. _*It's going to be a while longer, Optimus,*_ he confessed reluctantly. _*I'm, uh…I've hit a bit of a snag.*_

_*If you need assistance to get it constructed on schedule, I can send someone to help you,*_ Prime offered reasonably. *_Grapple and Hoist should have returned from repairing Powerglide by now – *_

_*No, it's not – that won't be necessary, sir,*_ Wheeljack replied quickly, not wanting to admit that he hadn't even come up with a workable schematic yet, let alone begun assembling a prototype. _*I can do it; everything's fine.*_

There was a pause. When Prime's reply came back over the link, his tone of polite command had been replaced by one far more gentle and hesitant. _*…is everything all right, Wheeljack?*_

He winced, realizing that the quaver of desperation in his vocalizer must have carried through to Optimus. _*I'm fine,*_ he insisted stubbornly. _*It's just taking a little longer than I thought it would. I'll have it ready in time, I promise.*_

_*If you find you need assistance…*_ Optimus began.

_*I'll let you know, sir,*_ he replied quickly. _*Wheeljack out.*_ He closed the link, his spark clenching in self-disgust. Now he was lying to Optimus, too.

He shook his helm in denial. No, it wasn't a lie, not if he made it the truth. He couldn't – _wouldn't_ – let Optimus down. Prime and the humans were counting on him. _Everyone_ was counting on him.

He turned back to his workstation with renewed determination, retrieving his discarded datapad. He proceeded to pour every ounce of concentration he possessed into the task, letting his own tangled emotions fuel his endeavor.

His firm resolve to live up to his leader's expectations, to convince Optimus that he was still a valuable, contributing member of the team, not one that needed to be coddled or handled with delicacy, kept Wheeljack working tirelessly throughout the night, pausing only long enough to down the remainder of the energon cube he'd subspaced that morning.

Trailbreaker's open admiration and unwavering confidence in his abilities inspired him to innovate, to experiment with new ideas he'd never before considered.

His anger at Ratchet's betrayal spurred him to look beyond mere damage or defense, drove him to explore the darker avenues of destruction that would eventually lead him to the invention of a weapon whose sole purpose was the complete and utter obliteration of its target.

Just after dawn, Wheeljack set down his datapad, drained and exhausted, but confident of his success. At long last he'd finalized the plans for the human's new weapon, and was ready to begin constructing the prototype.

Putting the weapon together took another full day, not counting the few kliks he spent hastily refueling, or the handful of joors he lost to forced recharge when his overtaxed systems finally shut down. But it was worth it. He finished the weapon right on schedule.

It was a truly devastating creation, more vicious than anything Wheeljack had ever before conceived. Not a mere weapon, but a _superweapon_. With it, not only would the Autobots and their human allies be able to keep the Decepticon forces at bay, they would be able to eliminate them entirely, removing them as a threat and thereby ending the war.

He called it the _Negavator._

x.x.x.x.x

Wheeljack jerked online with a ragged cry of alarm, sitting up in his berth.

His optics glowed faintly in the dimness as he cast about, trying to remember where he was. As the familiar features of his quarters met his questing gaze, the tension in his servos eased marginally, but his spark continued to pulse frantically.

Another sensor echo.

This one had been worse than usual. For that, Wheeljack blamed the events of the day – and himself.

The first field test of the _Negavator_ had been a resounding success. The humans had been more than satisfied with Wheeljack's creation, and the admiring comments he'd received from his fellow Autobots had made his spark swell with pride.

Then Soundwave had shown up with his cassettes, and Wheeljack's pride had dissolved into terror and despair.

It wasn't surprising the Decepticons wanted the _Negavator_ for themselves – _any_ weapon would have interested them, let alone one as powerful as the one Wheeljack had created. The real question was, how had they _known_ about it?

Laserbeak had successfully infiltrated the _Ark_ before, spying on the Autobots and recording their activities. Had the Recordicon managed to get inside Wheeljack's lab? Had Laserbeak been spying on _him_, recording his actions all this time?

The thought of Soundwave and the other Decepticons – and Starscream in particular – watching him as he frantically scrubbed Ratchet's paint off his thigh plate was even worse than wondering what might have happened if Prime or Trailbreaker had noticed it. Unwelcome images had flooded his CPU, imagined scenes of Starscream laughing at his efforts and making crude comments, boasting that his encounter with Wheeljack must have given the Autobot inventor a taste for rough, Decepticon-style 'facing.

His fuel tank had roiled in self-disgust, and his hands had begun to shake. He'd been all but useless in the fight to keep Soundwave from stealing the _Negavator_.

His reaction had in turn set off a renewed wave of guilt, terror and self-recrimination that made him stagger back against the wall, violent tremors assaulting his frame. What had he _done?_ What had he been _thinking_, creating a weapon of such devastating power? Soundwave had trapped them in the bunker, had a clean run at the _Negavator_, and Wheeljack, the 'Bot who had _built_ it, could do nothing but stand by helplessly, frozen in terror, consumed by despair. His spark had clenched in anguish, filled with a dreadful certainty that he'd single-handedly doomed them all.

From there things had only gotten _worse_.

They'd managed to drive off Soundwave and the cassettes before they could steal the _Negavator_, but Wheeljack had nevertheless been consumed by guilt. The Decepticons had very nearly gained control of a weapon powerful enough to destroy them all – a weapon _he'd_ invented – and if not for Inferno's heroic intervention, Optimus Prime would have been its first victim. Red Alert had been damaged defending it, struck by a parting shot from Rumble as the 'Cons retreated.

All of it was Wheeljack's fault. And it still wasn't over.

Concerned that the damage to the bunker might compromise its security, Optimus had decided the superweapon would be better off back at the base. With a heavy spark, Wheeljack had transformed and rolled out with the others, praying they'd be able to get the _Negavator_ back to the _Ark_ before Soundwave returned with reinforcements.

His prayers went unanswered.

They'd barely gotten underway when the Decepticons attacked in force. To Wheeljack's dismay, this time Starscream was with them. The sound of the Decepticon's distinctive screeching vocalizer had set his fuel tank churning anew, and turned the energon in his lines to ice.

His spark pulsing in panic, Wheeljack had thrown himself into reverse, no thought in his CPU beyond the desire to escape, a single word repeating itself over and over in his processor like an endless feedback loop: _No, no, no, no, no –!_

His tires had spun wildly, throwing up a huge cloud of dust that half-blinded him as he swerved, veering around so rapidly that he collided head-on with Red Alert. The impact had thrown the already-damaged Lamborghini clear off his wheels, his circuits sparking.

Ratchet had warned him. His words had echoed in Wheeljack's processor as the battle raged around him: _You freeze up whenever you see him. What happens the next time we go into battle? What happens if you have to_ fight_ him?_

_I die,_ Wheeljack's inner voice had responded, sounding eerily calm. _I die, and so do all the others. They die because of _me.

Red Alert had been damaged but functional when they left the bunker, but after their collision his logic and reason circuits were fried. No one else seemed to have seen what had happened; Optimus Prime even commented that Red must have been more damaged than he'd thought, sending a painful twinge of guilt through Wheeljack's circuits.

_He_ was responsible for Red Alert's injuries, not just the latest but _all_ of them, directly or indirectly. When Red Alert fled from his allies in a paranoid daze, Wheeljack was too overcome by guilt to try and stop him.

Wheeljack had never before failed to put another 'Bots' welfare before his own, to provide assistance whenever or wherever it was needed. He'd never before been the cause of another Bots' suffering instead of the cure.

For a few astroseconds, the shame had been so great he'd wanted to die.

By the end of the day, Red Alert had been saved and the _Negavator_ destroyed. The Decepticons had retreated, and the Autobots had returned to the _Ark_ to celebrate their victory.

But Wheeljack hadn't felt particularly victorious. He'd forgone the celebration, returning instead to his quarters. He'd collapsed onto the berth, feeling lower than the pavement that had passed under his tires that day.

He was pathetic. Weak, defective, utterly useless. A threat to everyone around him.

He hated Starscream for doing this to him, for forcing himself on him and making him this way. He hated Ratchet, for betraying his trust, for failing to fix him when he'd promised he would.

But most of all, he hated himself.


	19. Agency

**Title: **After Atlantis  
**Obligatory Disclaimer:** I don't own Transformers. This chapter contains minor references to the G1 cartoon episode_ "Auto Berserk" _(plus a brief nod to _"Heavy Metal War.") _Additional episodes will be referenced in future chapters.  
**Warnings: **PTSD angst, references to rape, references to sex, sexual situations.  
**Author's Note: **Oh, shame on me. Practically a whole chapter o' smut. Enjoy!

**Chapter 19: Agency**

Wheeljack was lying on his berth, staring blankly up at the ceiling when he received Trailbreaker's query ping.

Stifling a groan, he heaved himself to his feet and moved to the door, triggering the mechanism. The door slid open, revealing the smiling mech standing on the other side.

"Hey," Trailbreaker greeted him. "I was in the section, thought I'd stop by."

"Oh," he replied with little enthusiasm. "Hi."

Trailbreaker glanced around uncertainly, looking vaguely uncomfortable. "Do you mind if I come in for a klik?" he asked. "I mean, if that's okay with you."

Wheeljack hesitated. A part of him suspected Trailbreaker had shown up at his door because he wanted to interface, that he'd finally come to collect on the debt Wheeljack owed him, but another part recalled he'd had that suspicion before, and been wrong.

"Sure," he said with a shrug, stepping back to allow the larger mech to enter.

Trailbreaker came in with a quiet "Thanks," and stood looking around the room, taking in the clutter of tools at the workstation, the haphazard stack of datapads on the berthside table. "Nice," he commented.

"Thanks," Wheeljack replied diffidently. "Sorry it's kind of a mess."

"Oh, that's okay," Trailbreaker said agreeably. "I know you've been really busy lately."

After an awkward moment of silence, Wheeljack asked, "Did you want to sit down?"

"Sure, thanks," Trailbreaker assented, settling his broad frame into the only chair.

Wheeljack fidgeted uneasily. He'd been hoping Trailbreaker wouldn't stay long – he'd only asked to come in for a klik – but he felt certain if he sat down too, Trailbreaker would interpret that as an invitation to linger. He felt silly just standing there, though, so after a moment's hesitation, he took a seat on the edge of the berth.

Another long, awkward silence stretched out between them.

"Was there a problem with one of your mods?" he asked finally, unable to bear it any longer.

"Huh?" Trailbreaker said, glancing up to meet his inquiring gaze. "Oh! No. No, they're working great, thanks."

Wheeljack's spark sank. _I knew it,_ he thought. _He's tired of waiting; he wants to 'face me again._ He didn't bother offering a reply, regarding Trailbreaker with resigned, expectant optics.

"You're probably wondering why I'm here," Trailbreaker said with a sheepish grin.

_Not really_, he thought wryly. _It's kind of obvious._

"I came to see how you were doing," Trailbreaker admitted.

Wheeljack cocked his helm, startled. "Me?" he asked. "Why?"

"Well, you weren't at the party," Trailbreaker explained, "and when I heard about what happened to the _Negavator_..." Trailbreaker trailed off, shrugging, "I thought you might be upset."

"Oh," Wheeljack said again, relaxing slightly. "I don't care about _that_," he said. "Beats letting the 'Cons get hold of it."

"You're not torqued off about it getting destroyed?" Trailbreaker asked, sounding mildly incredulous. "After all the time you spent putting it together? _I_ would be."

He shrugged again, indifferently. "Most of my inventions end up that way. I guess I'm used to it."

"I'm impressed," Trailbreaker said, and it sounded like he meant it. "I know you worked really hard on it; Hound told me he saw you in the common room the other day, said you looked like you were ready to drop. You really don't mind?"

He shook his helm. "It's better this way. It was just too powerful."

Trailbreaker nodded, smiling. "I guess that's true. And at least you've still got the plans for it – if you wanted to, I guess you could always build another one."

Wheeljack stiffened. "_No,_" he said, more vehemently than he'd intended.

Trailbreaker tipped his helm, regarding him with a quizzical expression.

He lowered his gaze, focusing his optics on the floor. "I'm not making another one," he said quietly. "Not ever. I should never have built it in the first place."

Trailbreaker asked softly, "Why not?"

"Because the Decepticons almost got it," he said, fighting to keep the anguish out of his vocalizer. "Rumble nearly shot _Optimus_ with it. Red Alert got _damaged_ defending it."

Wheeljack heard the shift and scrape of metal as Trailbreaker got to his feet, but he didn't look up. Not even when the larger mech sat down on the berth beside him, slipping an arm around his shoulder-struts.

"You can't blame yourself for that," Trailbreaker said gently. "The humans were the ones who wanted a weapon, and Optimus and Ironhide were the ones who agreed to give them one. All you did was build it."

"I could have built something else," he argued. "Something weaker. Something less dangerous."

"All weapons are dangerous," Trailbreaker replied. "You gave them what they wanted. You gave them your best, like you always do. That's not something you should apologize for."

Trailbreaker's argument held the ring of truth. "I guess," he relented.

"If you ask me, the humans shouldn't have asked for a weapon to begin with," Trailbreaker opined. "Not if all they wanted was to defend themselves. Offensive weapons have their place, but there's always a risk that they'll be turned against you. A defensive device would have been a much better idea."

Wheeljack lifted his helm, twisting slightly to meet the other mech's optics. "I never thought of that," he admitted.

Trailbreaker shrugged, "Why would you? It wasn't what they asked for."

Wheeljack nodded. "But you're right," he said thoughtfully. "The Decepticons wouldn't be as interested in a defensive weapon, and the humans would have a way to protect themselves when we're not around."

Trailbreaker chuckled, "I guess it figures I'd see it that way – it's my function, after all."

"Yeah, maybe," he said, feeling strangely comforted. "But you're good at it."

"Thanks," Trailbreaker replied, sounding pleased. "I'm glad you think so."

"Maybe I should try doing that – inventing something defensive instead of offensive," he said. "Just in case they ask again."

"Hey, why not?" Trailbreaker said agreeably. "Even if they don't, I'm sure we could use it."

_And no one would get hurt,_ he thought, settling back against Trailbreaker's chassis. The gentle warmth and steady thrum of Trailbreaker's working systems was remarkably soothing. Wheeljack cycled his vents in a sigh, feeling the tension slipping from his servos.

"Your force field's a really powerful defensive mod," he mused softly. "Versatile, too. Maybe I could come up with something like that, something portable that the humans could use."

"That'd do the trick," Trailbreaker agreed. "If you want, you could take a look at mine, see how it works."

Wheeljack looked up at him in surprise. Every Cybertronian had a singular ability that was unique to them, governed by a power chip rectifier. Most guarded them jealously, considering them second only to their sparks, and even medics sometimes had a hard time persuading nervous mechs to grant them access to those components when they were in need of maintenance or repair. For Trailbreaker to offer his up for casual inspection was frankly startling.

"You'd _do_ that?" he asked incredulously.

Trailbreaker smiled. "I would for you," he said. "I owe you, remember?"

"No you don't," he insisted, shaking his helm. "Not like _that_. If anything, I owe _you_."

"For what?" Trailbreaker laughed. "That thing with the Dinobots? That doesn't count. I'd have done that anyway."

"Not just for that," Wheeljack replied. "For…you know, everything."

"Everything?" Trailbreaker inquired, pulling back slightly to peer at him curiously.

"For listening," he said, his vocalizer dropping to a whisper. "For waiting."

"_Oh_," Trailbreaker said, catching on. He chuckled, "You don't owe me for _that_. I wanted to wait too."

Wheeljack stared at him, nonplussed. "You did?"

"Yeah," Trailbreaker replied, drawing him close again. "Besides, I _like_ listening to you. Talking to you, spending time with you…" His hand dropped to Wheeljack's waist components, fingers tracing lightly across his hip plate. "…touching you."

A faint flush of heat suffused his circuits in response to Trailbreaker's tone. "Oh," he said softly.

"I like _you_," Trailbreaker concluded.

Wheeljack could only stare up at him, speechless. His vocal indicators flickered, but no words emerged from his vocalizer. A gentle, tingling warmth was spreading steadily through his circuitry, familiar, and yet not.

How long had it been since he'd honestly felt genuine _desire_, sincerely craved an intimate connection with another mech? With Starscream, he'd had no choice. With Ratchet, he'd been caught up, swept away in the flood of overwhelming sensation.

This was _different_.

Trailbreaker's fingers dipped shallowly into the transformation seam between his hip and thigh, barely brushing the sensitive wires hidden within. "Is this okay?" he asked quietly.

"Yeah," he whispered back, to his own surprise. A swirl of conflicting emotions stirred in his spark, battling one another for supremacy. His core temperature was rising, creeping steadily upward degree by slow degree.

"We don't have to," Trailbreaker whispered into his audial, his other hand caressing the curve of Wheeljack's windshield. "If you still want to wait…"

He hesitated, uncertain. He wanted to. He didn't want to. His spark pulsed with longing – or was it fear? His intakes hitched as Trailbreaker's wandering hands passed over a particularly sensitive node, making him shudder, a faint whimper escaping his vocalizer.

An astrosecond later, Trailbreaker's hands halted their movement. "Wheeljack?" he inquired, drawing back to peer into his optics. "Do you want me to stop?"

Unable to speak, Wheeljack shook his helm and reached for him, his hands sliding up over the larger mech's chestplate, digging his fingers into the gaps where Trailbreaker's arms met his chassis, tugging him close again.

Trailbreaker moaned at the touch, arching into him. His energy field flickered, extending tentatively outward as his hands resumed their motion. Wheeljack shivered in response to the light, teasing sensation, pushing his own field out to greet it.

The two fields met, rippled, and fell into synch.

Transmitting a set of slow, heavy pulses, Wheeljack pressed his fingers deeper into the gap, probing beneath the heavy armor plating, seeking out sensitive wires and circuits.

Trailbreaker fell back onto the berth with a groan, his cooling fans switching on as Wheeljack followed him down, moved to kneel astride Trailbreaker's waist components and leaned over him, his energy field humming.

Trailbreaker's hands fumbled their way upward along his thighs, blindly seeking out the gaps now left wide and exposed by Wheeljack's new position. His energy field, no longer tentative, pulsed and throbbed, hungrily enveloping Wheeljack in its heated embrace.

Wheeljack couldn't help but moan at the sensation, at the energy field pressing hot and hard against his own, making his circuits burn with need. He ran his hands back down Trailbreaker's chestplate, tripping every sensor he could find along the way, including the ones lining his own highly sensitive palms.

Trailbreaker's fingers found the gaps below his hip plate, and Wheeljack bucked into them with a groan, trying to force them deeper, his cooling fans switching on with a soft _click-whirr_. His energy field pulsed faster, hard and demanding, and Trailbreaker gasped his name like a prayer.

It was then that Wheeljack's questing fingers finally found their goal, reaching up beneath what would be the bumper of Trailbreaker's alt mode to tug the wires hidden within – the veritable Promised Land for mechs of that build type – and was rewarded with a shout of pleasure and a blast of hot air gusting over his fingertips from Trailbreaker's wildly revving engine.

The heat and sensation further stimulated the sensors in his hands, and Wheeljack pressed them in further, eager for more. Trailbreaker's fingers dug in deeper, clenching tight enough to leave dents as he arched beneath him, sobbing out the most deliciously _needy_ whimpers.

Hands stroking faster, Wheeljack once more pushed his energy field into the gasping, straining mech trapped between his parted thighs, sending a series of deep, vigorous pulses singing through Trailbreaker's circuits.

"Oh – _Primus_ – Wheeljack–!" Trailbreaker gasped out, his hands spasming against Wheeljack's hip plate, his vocalizer rising to a shriek as he bellowed out his name. With a raw cry, Trailbreaker overloaded, releasing a massive burst of electricity that slammed into Wheeljack like a thunderbolt from heaven.

Wheeljack stiffened as it struck home, his backstruts bowing, his frame jerking helplessly as the hot, crackling wave of searing electric bliss engulfed him. His vocal indicators flashed and strobed, sending shadows chasing over the walls, but his wordless cries of pleasure were lost amid the rattle and roar of vibrating metal and revving engines.

Moments later, he slumped over Trailbreaker, his intakes heaving, the steady _tick-tick-tick_ of cooling metal ringing in his audials, his circuits sizzling in the aftermath of ecstasy.

Trailbreaker's darkened optics flickered and onlined, and he stared up at him in wonder, panting heavily through his intakes in an effort cool his overheated internals.

"Holy Primus, Wheeljack," Trailbreaker gasped. "That was _so_ worth the wait!"

Trailbreaker's words, and awestruck tone in which he uttered them, made Wheeljack's circuits heat with embarrassment. He realized belatedly that he was still sprawled atop the larger mech and made to rise, but Trailbreaker caught hold of his hand, tugging him back down.

"Don't run off yet," Trailbreaker said with a teasing grin. "I was just starting to enjoy myself."

"_Starting_ to?" he asked wryly.

Trailbreaker barked a laugh. "Oh, I enjoyed that – you _know_ I did – but I like this part, too," he explained, reaching up to caress Wheeljack's chestplate.

He shifted uneasily, unsure how to respond. He wasn't as large as some mechs, but he was no minibot. He was certainly heavy enough to keep Trailbreaker effectively pinned to the berth, but for some reason Trailbreaker didn't seem to mind.

After a moment's hesitation, he eased back down.

Trailbreaker huffed contentedly through his vents, sliding his arms around him, gathering him close.

Wheeljack was more than a little nonplussed; he knew their overheated systems would stabilize far more rapidly if they separated. Remaining in such close proximity post-overload would trap the excess heat between them, keeping their core temperatures elevated. Even now, the heat was most concentrated where their frames were in direct contact, leaving him feeling like he was sitting astride a smelter. Did Trailbreaker actually _like_ that?

"Mmm," Trailbreaker rumbled happily, "You're so _warm_."

Apparently he _did_.

As puzzling as Trailbreaker's behavior was, it at least afforded Wheeljack the opportunity to think. A part of him was still reeling, shocked by what he had done.

He'd interfaced with Trailbreaker again.

He'd known it was coming; ever since the night they'd first interfaced, he'd anticipated the moment when Trailbreaker would inevitably appear and request a repeat performance, attempt to initiate another intimate encounter with him. The very thought of it had filled Wheeljack with dread.

Now that moment had come and gone – and he'd accepted it. No, he'd _welcomed_ it.

The first time, he'd been frozen with fear, unable to resist, too terrified to protest. He'd lain mute and helpless as Trailbreaker stimulated him to overload, wanting nothing more than for him to stop.

This time, he'd wanted nothing more than for him continue.

He shuddered as he recalled the exquisite sensations, the waves of pleasure coursing through his circuitry, rising and swelling to a final, ecstatic peak.

He hadn't been afraid. He hadn't felt frightened or helpless. He'd felt confident, powerful, in control.

It had felt…_good_.

Trailbreaker stirred beneath him, distracting him from his thoughts. Even pressed so close together, the heat between them had gradually begun to dissipate, allowing their systems to normalize.

He glanced down at the larger mech, "Did you want me to move?"

Trailbreaker's lip components curled in a little pout. "I guess we have to get up eventually," he said with regret. "You probably want me to get out of here so you can recharge."

"You don't have to," he heard himself saying. "You can stay, if you want."

Trailbreaker beamed. "You mean it?"

Wheeljack thought for a moment. Incredibly, he did. "Yeah."

Trailbreaker slid a hand up his backstrut, sending a curious tingling sensation shivering through Wheeljack's exhausted circuits as they endeavored to respond, making his intakes hitch. Then he lowered the hand to the berth and patted it gently. "Here?" he said, grinning teasingly.

Nodding mutely, Wheeljack shifted his weight to one side, lifting himself off the larger mech. After a few moments of shuffling around they managed to rearrange themselves so that they were lying properly on the berth, stretched out side by side. Once more Trailbreaker reached for him, wrapping his arms around Wheeljack's waist components and pulling him in close to his chassis.

The closeness, the warmth, and the steady hum of Trailbreaker's systems were all becoming increasingly familiar to Wheeljack, subtle reminders his CPU associated with comfort and safety. He realized with a jolt that the last night he'd spent like this, wrapped tight in Trailbreaker's embrace, had been the first time he'd successfully completed a full recharge cycle, undisturbed by sensor echoes.

A tension he hadn't even known was there abruptly eased from his servos. He cycled a sigh of relief, settling more comfortably into Trailbreaker's arms.

Within moments he'd drifted into a deep and dreamless recharge.


	20. Artifice

**Title: **After Atlantis  
**Obligatory Disclaimer:** I don't own Transformers. This chapter contains references to the G1 cartoon episode_ "Microbots," _and an amused nod to_ "Prime Target." _Additional episodes will be referenced in future chapters.  
**Warnings: **PTSD angst, references to rape, references to sex.  
**Author's Note: **Whew! This chapter turned out _long_, partly because Ratchet demanded I give him a proper scene. Our missing medic is back, folks! Oh, the drama!

**Chapter 20: Artifice**

Wheeljack onlined wrapped in Trailbreaker's arms, his systems rebooting as the recharge cycle he'd initiated the night before completed its run.

Evidently his theory had been correct. There'd been no interruptions. No sensor ghosts.

He'd needed the respite, needed it badly. Of all the troubles plaguing him recently, his inability to recharge normally had been the most critical, the one most likely to cause him to do something foolish out of sheer desperation, or to make some fatal error that resulted in the injury – or worse – of a fellow 'Bot or human ally. He'd already done things he regretted, made some poor decisions he blamed at least in part on the diminished processing capacity of his wearied CPU.

He glanced over at Trailbreaker, still deep in recharge, studying him thoughtfully. He may not have managed to get his hands on a processor inhibitor…but it seemed he'd found an effective alternative.

A renewed sense of optimism filled his spark, and he felt a measure of his former confidence returning. With sufficient recharge, he'd be able to function again. More than any mod or invention, Wheeljack's _processor_ was what he relied on, the source of his greatest strength. With it charged and functioning at full capacity, he would be able to face his problems head-on, the way he used to, before…everything had happened.

A slight variation in the soft, steady hum of Trailbreaker's slumbering systems pulled Wheeljack from his musings, drawing his attention back to the mech recharging beside him. A few astroseconds later Trailbreaker stirred, his optics onlining to meet Wheeljack's.

"Morning," Wheeljack greeted him, vocal indicators flashing brightly.

Trailbreaker grinned broadly. "Someone's feeling chipper this morning," he said with a chuckle. "Have a good recharge?"

"I did," he replied. "Thanks."

Trailbreaker's optics gave off a faint glow in the dimly lit room as his hand sought out Wheeljack's in the darkness and gave it a gentle squeeze. "So, no regrets this time?"

The question triggered a revelation in his CPU, a complication he'd failed to consider, one he'd overlooked in his elation. He'd recharged well last night, true – but what about tonight? Or tomorrow night? The night after?

He didn't think he'd have any difficulty persuading Trailbreaker to share his berth _every_ night to ensure his uninterrupted recharge, but he also knew such an arrangement wouldn't come without cost. If they began sharing a berth on a regular basis, Trailbreaker would naturally expect Wheeljack to interface with him. Frequently.

His spark quailing, Wheeljack met Trailbreaker's earnest gaze – now tinged with worry due to his lack of immediate response – and thought fast.

He now knew that he didn't _have_ to feel frightened or helpless during an interface, didn't have to just lie there and let things be done to him. He could take control, take the lead, set the pace, like he had last night. He could interface on his own terms. As accommodating as he was, Wheeljack felt certain Trailbreaker would let him.

Last night hadn't been _too_ awful. Certainly not as bad as the first time. It had actually been…kind of nice.

If that was the price Wheeljack had to pay for uninterrupted recharge, for a processor free of sensor echoes…

He decided he was willing to pay it.

"No," he said after a momentary pause. "No, no regrets."

Trailbreaker's expression seemed caught somewhere between relieved and wary. "You had to think about that," he said, sounding a little less cheerful than he had a moment ago.

Processor racing, he stammered, "Yeah, I, uh…actually I was thinking maybe we could, um…"

Trailbreaker's optics brightened with hope and desire. His hand, still clasping Wheeljack's, gave a slight squeeze. "You want to go again?" he guessed, a hint of eagerness betraying his vocalizer.

Wheeljack's spark clenched in apprehension. He had made his decision, true, but he hadn't expected to be called to act on it _quite_ so soon. He hesitated, torn. If he refused, it might arouse Trailbreaker's suspicions. If he consented, Trailbreaker might sense his reluctance.

The soft chime of an internal reminder provided the solution to his dilemma. "I can't," he said. "I'm on duty in a few breems."

"Oh," Trailbreaker replied, wilting a little. "I'm off today," he added almost as an afterthought.

"If you don't have plans, you could come to the lab with me, let me take a look at your force field mod," he suggested.

Trailbreaker grinned. "Aha. You _do_ want to get under my plating," he teased. "I knew it."

"I guess I do," Wheeljack said, ducking his helm in embarrassment. "Will you?" he asked softly, lifting his gaze to meet Trailbreaker's entreatingly.

"When you ask me like that, how can I refuse?" Trailbreaker replied happily.

x.x.x.x.x

As they departed from his quarters, they bumped into Ironhide. Literally.

Wheeljack exited first, glancing back as he stepped out into the corridor to see if Trailbreaker was following. A sudden jolt and a loud _clang_ announced the collision, followed by another as he stumbled back against Trailbreaker's chestplate. Trailbreaker had the presence of mind to catch him, steadying Wheeljack long enough for him to regain his equilibrium.

"Aw, sorry, Wheeljack," he heard Ironhide saying in his familiar drawl. "Didn't see ya there."

"That's all right, Ironhide. No harm done," Trailbreaker replied cheerfully. "Good morning, by the way."

There was a brief, startled pause. "Uh, mornin' Trailbreaker," Ironhide stammered. "H-how are ya?"

"Good," Trailbreaker said. "We're on our way to the common room for some energon. Care to join us?"

Ironhide glanced at Wheeljack, who avoided his optics, finding himself suddenly wishing he could sink into the floor and disappear.

"Nah, that's okay," Ironhide drawled, sounding uncomfortable. "I gotta get to Command."

"All right then," Trailbreaker replied agreeably. "See you around!""

Wheeljack's circuits burned with mortification as he watched Ironhide hurry off. Based on his flustered reaction, it was obvious Ironhide had immediately discerned that Trailbreaker had spent the night in Wheeljack's quarters, and drawn an accurate conclusion as to why.

Wheeljack cycled a sigh. He supposed he should be thankful Ironhide _had_ been surprised; their quarters were directly adjacent, and sound sometimes carried through the walls. He could only pray Ironhide had been out late last night.

"We'd better get moving," Trailbreaker said. "If he's in a hurry to report for duty, he must be running late. Which means you are, too."

"He reports in early so he can check in with Red Alert," Wheeljack replied, which was true. "We've still got time to refuel."

"Oh," Trailbreaker said. "Great, let's go."

They proceeded on to the common room – Trailbreaker once again resting a hand on his backstrut as they walked, this time further down, just above his waist components – which proved to be fairly crowded that morning.

No one remarked on their arrival, much to Wheeljack's relief. After a brief consultation, Trailbreaker headed off to dispense their rations while Wheeljack secured an empty table.

The sting of embarrassment he'd felt as a result of their brief meeting with Ironhide began to fade, and his thoughts gradually turned to the latest task he'd laid out for himself – the invention of a portable force field generator.

Removing a datapad and stylus from his subspace compartment, he began making notations, drawing up a basic schematic. By the time Trailbreaker returned with a pair of energon cubes, Wheeljack was thoroughly absorbed in his task.

"What's that?" Trailbreaker asked, peering at the datapad as he set a cube down in front of him.

"I'm drawing up a schematic for that force field generator we talked about," Wheeljack replied absently, making another notation. "I'll have to fabricate some of the components, jury-rig a few others from stuff I've got lying around, but I think I've got everything I need to build it." He picked up the cube Trailbreaker had set before him and subspaced it for later without lifting his optics from the datapad. "It won't be anywhere near as compact as yours, and it'll consume a ton of energy besides, but I don't think the humans will mind. There's no shortage of resources here on Earth, and compared to their current technology, it'll seem downright efficient by their standards."

"Wow," Trailbreaker said, sitting down. He sounded impressed. "Sounds like you've got it all worked out. You sure you even need me?"

Wheeljack glanced up at him. Trailbreaker's tone had been upbeat and playful, and a teasing grin quirked his lip components, but a hint of uncertainty lurked in his optics.

"I definitely need you," he reassured him. "I only have a general idea how your force field works; I'm not sure of the details. Having you there for reference will be a big help."

"Oh, good," Trailbreaker replied, a look of relief flickering across his faceplate. "If there's anything I can do for you, you just name it."

"Thanks," he said, returning his attention to the datapad.

Trailbreaker remained silent as he worked, quietly consuming his energon ration. Within a few kliks Wheeljack was once more completely absorbed – so much so that when another mech came over to their table, he barely registered his approach.

"There you are, 'Breaker!" Hound said. "I've been looking all over for you! You weren't in your quarters last night, and when I stopped by this morning – _oh_. Hi, Wheeljack."

Wheeljack looked up to find Hound staring at him in surprise, having broken off in mid-sentence to greet him.

"Hey, Hound," he replied, giving the scout a polite nod before returning his attention to his datapad.

Hound glanced back and forth between the two seated mechs, his gaze finally settling on Trailbreaker. "I was hoping you could help me out again today, 'Breaker," he said. He gave Wheeljack another brief glance. "You busy?"

"I am this morning," he heard Trailbreaker reply. "I might be free this afternoon, though. Wheeljack?"

"We'll be done by then," he said without looking up, scratching out a line on his datapad and making a minor revision.

"Does this afternoon work for you?" Trailbreaker asked his friend.

"Yeah," Hound replied, and Wheeljack could tell from his tone he was smiling. "That'll be fine. Meet me in my quarters?"

"I'll be there," Trailbreaker assured him.

"Great! Looking forward to it," Hound said. "See you around, fellas."

Wheeljack glanced up long enough to give a distracted wave farewell, then went back to his datapad. There was a moment of silence, followed by the rhythmic clank of Hound's retreating footsteps. "Quatra board?" he asked, his optics still focused on the screen.

"Yeah," Trailbreaker replied with a chuckle. "Feels like we've been playing forever, but he thinks we might finally finish in another day or two. Then he can give the board to Mirage, who'll probably beat his aft on it in under a joor."

He laughed, imagining Hound's expression in that scenario. "It's the thought that counts," he said, vocal indicators flashing in amusement. Subspacing his datapad, he looked up and noted that Trailbreaker had already finished and dispersed his cube. "You ready to go to the lab?"

"You bet," Trailbreaker replied, getting to his feet and offering him a hand. "Let's get inventing."

x.x.x.x.x

Within a few joors, they had produced a functional prototype.

_Functional_ might have been a somewhat generous description. The first time Wheeljack activated the device, the energy drain had blown all the lights in his lab, plunging them into darkness. He'd had to fumble around for the "off" switch by the dim glow of his own optics.

But at least it hadn't blown up.

Trailbreaker's input had proved invaluable. Not only had he allowed Wheeljack to open him up and examine his own force field for reference, he'd lent a hand in the actual construction, and suggested several applications for the force field itself that Wheeljack hadn't thought of.

He'd also been very pleasant company. The jokes and camaraderie they'd shared as they worked reminded Wheeljack of the times he'd spent performing repairs in the medbay with Ratchet – only without the acerbic comments.

He hadn't quite managed to work up the nerve to invite Trailbreaker to spend the night in his quarters again, but there'd been a couple of occasions when he'd come pretty close. At one point he'd looked up to find Trailbreaker gazing at him with a curiously _wistful_ expression, and he'd nearly said something – but then Trailbreaker had noticed him looking, smiled and asked a question, and the moment was gone.

In the end he let Trailbreaker go without vocalizing his request, promising himself he'd comm him later, after he'd had some time to work out exactly how he intended to phrase it. Trailbreaker's hand had brushed against one of his sensor-winglets as he bade him farewell; Wheeljack couldn't decide if it had been accidental or not.

He'd gone back to the device to do some fine-tuning when he got the comm.

A special news bulletin had interrupted _"As the Kitchen Sinks"_ to report the discovery of an "alien spacecraft" in the continent of South America, uncovered by a team of human archeologists. The humans were excited by the news. The Autobots, after catching a glimpse of the mysterious craft in question, were not.

It was the _Nemesis_. Megatron's ship, the one that had pursued them all the way from Cybertron only to crash-land on Earth at the same time the _Ark_ had crashed. Unlike the _Ark_, it had been lost, buried in the earth for four million years.

Until now.

After so much time, it was unlikely the _Nemesis_ would ever fly again, but its discovery still remained a concern, for one simple reason: _The Heart of Cybertron_.

The _Heart_ was an energy maximizer, an amplifying crystal that had served as the power core for the Decepticon warship. Megatron would never allow so potent an energy source to lie unclaimed for long, not when he could use it to power some devastating new weapon or energy-collection device.

They had to get to it first.

Every 'Bot on duty was ordered to roll out, including Wheeljack and – to his dismay – _Ratchet_. Seeing Ratchet again had been an unpleasant surprise. He hadn't realized the medic had returned to duty. Wheeljack studiously avoided his optics as they boarded Skyfire and rushed to the dig site.

They arrived too late.

Megatron had already recovered the _Heart_ by the time they arrived, and had implanted it inside himself. The energy generated by the crystal made the Decepticon leader all but invincible. They'd attacked in full force, and Megatron had single-handedly swept them aside like so many iron filings.

There was no choice but to retreat. Trapping the Decepticons in a rockfall bought the Autobots enough time to escape, but it was only a temporary solution. Sooner or later Megatron would come for them, and powered by _Heart_, he would be unstoppable.

x.x.x.x.x

"Start with Wheeljack. I need him."

Prime's order startled him. Only five of the 'Bots who'd accompanied them had escaped from the battle unscathed; everyone else had been damaged, including Hoist and Ratchet. Why had he been given priority over them?

He didn't argue, though. At least it meant his repairs would be performed by Perceptor or Sparkplug rather than Ratchet. He didn't think he wanted his former friend that close to him.

When he was fully functional again, he reported to Optimus Prime's office.

"Come in, Wheeljack," Prime called in response to his query ping.

"You needed me, Optimus?" he asked as he stepped into the room.

"Yes," Prime replied. "I want you to rebuild the _Negavator_."

He stared at the Autobot leader in disbelief, momentarily too stunned to speak.

Optimus looked at him inquiringly when he failed to reply, cocking his helm in concern. "Wheeljack?"

He belatedly regained command of his vocalizer. "…I can't," he said.

"If you don't have the necessary materials, we can make arrangements with the humans to –"

"I _can't_," he said again, interrupting him. His vocalizer quavered on the last syllable, and he bowed his helm in shame, unable to meet Prime's puzzled optics.

There was a brief silence as Optimus digested this information. Then he sighed, a soft cycling of his vents. "I'm sorry to have to ask you for this, Wheeljack," he said finally, his tone gentle and understanding. "I know you've been –"

"I'm _fine!_" he blurted out, his circuits heating in mortified chagrin at the desperation coloring his words, at the crackle of static that invaded them. He clenched his hands into fists, fighting to rein in his rioting emotions, to keep himself under control.

"I wish there was another way," Optimus said, his vocalizer thick with regret. "But as long as Megatron has the _Heart of Cybertron_, he's far too dangerous for us to handle on our own. We need the _Negavator_. It's our only hope of stopping him."

"What if it isn't?" he asked softly. "What if I rebuild the _Negavator_ and Megatron _takes_ it from us because he's too powerful for us to stop him?" He raised his helm, meeting Prime's optics with a pleading gaze. "What if he ends up with both the _Heart_ _and_ the _Negavator_, and uses them to destroy _everything_ – us, the Earth…even Cybertron?"

Optimus Prime stared at him, clearly taken aback, but after a moment he recovered. "Do you have an alternate suggestion?" he asked.

"No," he said, shaking his helm. "I've been working on a portable force field, but it's still just a prototype, and uses a lot of energy. It might hold him off for a while, but…"

"But it's all we've got," Optimus concluded, surprising him. "We'll input the specs into Teletraan-1, run an analysis to find out exactly how much time your force field will buy us."

"Yes sir," he said, removing the datapad containing the force field schematic from his subspace compartment and handing it over. "I'll start setting it up."

x.x.x.x.x

Five Earth minutes.

That was how long Teletraan-1 predicted Wheeljack's force field generator would hold out under a continuous assault from a hyper-powered Megatron.

_Five. Minutes._

Wheeljack's spark sank. It wasn't enough time. Burying the Decepticons in an avalanche of rock had bought them some – certainly more than five Earth minutes – but it wouldn't hold them for long. He'd _wasted_ those precious joors making preparations on a useless force field when he _could_ have been assembling a weapon that would have saved them from certain doom.

A sickening blend of guilt, disgust and self-recrimination suffused his circuits, making his fuel tank churn. He'd been selfish. He'd refused to rebuild the _Negavator_ out of fear of being single-handedly responsible for destroying them all – and by that refusal, he'd accomplished the same feat.

It was too much to bear.

He looked on in despair as the other Autobots bustled around him, busily working to re-route every available erg of energy the _Ark_ could spare to power his force field generator. No one spoke. No one commented on the futility of their plan, or expressed regret over the fact that they would soon be facing the termination of their existences. Somehow, they all still clung to hope.

Wheeljack couldn't. He had no hope left.

Optimus Prime returned, and Wheeljack glanced up as he approached, half-expecting him to offer a reprimand, or perhaps ask if there was still time to rebuild the _Negavator_.

Instead, Prime described a new plan – an insane, illogical, irrational plan – conceived by Perceptor, to use his Transmat Reduction Beam to shrink a handful of Autobot warriors down to microscopic size, allowing them to infiltrate Megatron's body and disconnect the _Heart of Cybertron_ from within. In the meantime, Wheeljack's force field would be used to delay the Decepticon tyrant, to keep him occupied while the micronized 'Bots completed their mission.

He didn't know whether to feel relieved or horrified. Perceptor's proposed course of action was completely ludicrous, fantastically dangerous – and their only hope of survival.

x.x.x.x.x

Wheeljack knelt down beside what was left of his portable force field, examining the wreckage to see if any portion of it was salvageable.

There wasn't. The device had been thoroughly slagged.

But it had done its job. It had protected them, bought them the time Perceptor and the others had needed to disconnect the _Heart of Cybertron_ from Megatron. Knowing that, Wheeljack felt more pride than regret as he surveyed its charred and smoking remains.

He imagined Trailbreaker's response when he learned how effective the force field had been, the same force field he'd helped Wheeljack to build, and a curious warmth filled his spark. Shrugging his shoulder-struts and shaking his helm, he got to his feet and headed back to the _Ark_ to tell him.

Ratchet was waiting for him just beyond the entrance.

He halted a few strides short of the medic's position. "Ratchet," he greeted him coldly.

"We need to talk," Ratchet said without preamble.

Wheeljack's optics narrowed. "I don't think we do."

"I'm sure you don't," Ratchet replied. "But we still need to talk."

"Fine," he spat. "You want to talk? Let's _talk_." He crossed his arms over his chestplate, glaring at the medic. "What do you want to talk about first?" he asked acidly. "How you've been lying to me all this time? How you threatened to betray me? Or how you tried to plug yourself into me?"

A flurry of emotions too complex and numerous to interpret flickered rapidly across Ratchet's faceplate. "I'm sorry, 'Jack, truly sorry for that. I handled it all wrong. Please, just listen –"

"I think I've done enough of that already," Wheeljack interrupted curtly. "I'm through listening to you, Ratchet. I don't believe a word you say anymore."

"I get it, 'Jack," Ratchet said gently, placatingly. "I get that you're angry with me, and I understand, believe me. If you'd just let me explain–"

"Explain _what_, exactly?" he demanded, cutting him off again. "Is this the part where you tell me you were only trying to _help_ me? That I should _trust_ you?"

"'Jack, come on –"

"Or maybe this is the part where you lecture me about being not being _honest _about my feelings?" he said accusingly. "You know all about _that_, don't you Ratchet?"

Ratchet looked stricken, his lip components contorting briefly, but he tried again. "'Jack, please –"

"Or maybe you were planning to try and _blackmail_ me again," he said, his optics blazing, anger simmering through his circuits. "You go ahead and try, Ratchet," he challenged. "You say one word to _anyone_, and I'll tell Optimus his CMO is running around blabbing the contents of his patients' confidential medical files. You know, the ones with extremely restricted access?"

Ratchet's optics widened in shock and disbelief. His mouth opened, but no words emerged.

"Guess you don't like that idea," Wheeljack observed icily. "I'm betting Optimus won't like it much either."

Ratchet stared at him, stunned and speechless, evidently devastated by his counter-threat.

"Stay away from me, Ratchet," he warned. "And stay out of my business." With a final glare, Wheeljack shouldered past him roughly, reentering the _Ark_.

He didn't look back.


	21. Apologia

**Title: **After Atlantis  
**Obligatory Disclaimer:** I don't own Transformers. This chapter contains minor references to the G1 cartoon episode_ "Microbots." _Additional episodes will be referenced in future chapters.  
**Warnings: **PTSD angst, references to rape, references to sex, sexual situations.  
**Author's Note: **Another big chapter, although I did manage to sneak in under the 4K mark. This time I blame Hound. He's just so darn fun to write!

**Chapter 21: Apologia**

Wheeljack stalked down the corridor, quietly seething.

Ratchet had _betrayed_ him, violated his _trust_, and he thought he could _talk_ his way out of it? Convince Wheeljack to forgive him with more _lies?_

His steps slowed. Ratchet hadn't actually lied this time. To be honest, he hadn't said much of anything. Wheeljack hadn't let him.

His processor pulled the memory file of Ratchet's shocked and stricken expression from his cache unbidden, and Wheeljack's steps faltered. He came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the corridor, doubt assailing him.

Maybe he should have listened to Ratchet, heard what his friend had to say.

_No,_ he thought, shaking his helm. There was no excuse, no explanation that could justify what Ratchet had done. He shoved the nagging feelings of guilt and doubt aside, clinging to his anger, drawing it in tight around him like a defensive cloak.

He had to stay strong. Ratchet had hurt him. He couldn't forget that. He couldn't risk letting Ratchet get close enough to do it again. It would be too painful to endure.

But his anger was fading in spite of his resolve. He tried to hold on to it, but it slipped away like sand through his fingers, a rising tide of loneliness and despair sweeping in to take its place.

_Ratchet…_

He muted his vocalizer to contain a keen of sorrow. He _missed_ him. He missed his best friend.

He missed Ratchet so much it hurt.

x.x.x.x.x

Outside the door to Hound's quarters, Wheeljack hesitated, suddenly uncertain.

He hadn't placed an inquiry with Teletraan-1 regarding Trailbreaker's location. Permission to access that kind of information was a privilege accorded to Wheeljack due to his rank as an officer and his status as one of the _Ark's_ repair 'Bots. It wasn't intended for personal use. All inquiries were logged to ensure that no one abused the privilege. Occasional use for non-official purposes was considered mildly unethical, but harmless.

Wheeljack had a healthy respect for other 'Bots' privacy, and usually utilized his access only sparingly; he'd made more inquiries in the past decacycle than he normally did in orns. Because of this, it was unlikely any of his recent inquires would merit any suspicion – after all, there were countless _official_ reasons why he might have needed to locate Trailbreaker or Ratchet.

However, requesting Trailbreaker's location a _second_ time in so short a span would definitely get him noticed, especially now that Ironhide had seen them together and knew they were personally involved. Wheeljack didn't dare inquire about Trailbreaker's location again.

Under different circumstances, he would have simply commed Trailbreaker and _asked_ where he was – but after he'd run into Ratchet, Wheeljack had taken his comm offline. He'd initially done it out of anger, but he'd left it offline out of sheer self-preservation. If Ratchet were to comm him now and attempt another appeal, Wheeljack knew he'd break and listen.

He couldn't risk that.

It wasn't like he _needed_ to comm Trailbreaker, anyway. There were only so many places on the _Ark_ the defense strategist could be. Wheeljack had already tried his quarters; there'd been no response to his query ping. Based on what he knew of Trailbreaker's plans for the afternoon, Hound's quarters was the next logical step.

So here he was, standing like a fool in the corridor outside Hound's door, trying to work up the courage to ping the scout and ask if Trailbreaker was there. Even if he wasn't, Wheeljack figured Hound would know where he'd gone. They were friends, after all.

Fighting down the faint pang that shot through his spark at the thought, he huffed through his vents, squared his shoulder-struts, and transmitted the query.

The door opened promptly, answered by a smiling Hound whose smile grew even wider when he spied Wheeljack on the other side. "Wheeljack! Good to see you," Hound greeted him, loudly enough that Wheeljack knew instantly that Trailbreaker must be in the room.

"Hey, Hound," he replied, doing his best to sound as casual and upbeat as Hound did.

"Bet you're looking for 'Breaker," Hound said with a grin. "He's here. C'mon in and join us."

Wheeljack's spark sank. He was hardly in the mood for socializing, and the thought of extending his invitation to Trailbreaker in Hound's presence held little appeal. But he knew if he refused, Trailbreaker would remain, conclude his visit with Hound, and then head back to his quarters to recharge alone – depriving Wheeljack of his only opportunity to speak to him. So he thanked Hound and stepped inside.

Hound's quarters were reminiscent of Trailbreaker's, albeit more cluttered. Nearly every available surface was festooned with some form of organic souvenir, not only plants, but rocks and feathers and seashells and several other things Wheeljack couldn't readily identify.

Apart from that, the room was furnished identically to every other living quarters aboard the _Ark_; a workstation and chair, a berth and a berth-side table. The last had been pulled out into the center of the room, and had a large flat oval of what looked like wood lying on top of it, a number of small carved objects arranged in a seemingly random pattern across its surface. A datapad and few more pieces lay scattered alongside it.

The chair normally used in conjunction with the desk had been turned around and drawn up to the table. As Wheeljack stood near the door taking in the features of the room, Hound walked over and settled into it, waving a hand toward the berth, "Have a seat."

He looked in the direction Hound had indicated. Trailbreaker was there, smiling up at him, seated on the end of the berth within easy reach of the board, a small amount of space available on the berth beside him. Somewhat reluctantly, Wheeljack joined him and sat down, being careful not to bump his sensor-winglets or scrape their plating as he squeezed in alongside the larger mech.

"Thanks for coming by," Trailbreaker murmured, reaching around to rest a hand on his backstrut.

"Whose turn was it?" Hound asked.

"Yours," Trailbreaker replied. "Still," he added, casting an amused glance at Wheeljack.

"Right," Hound said, peering at the board. "Okay…let's see…"

After a brief deliberation, Hound picked up one of the pieces, a shiny black pebble with a small glyph carved at its center, and set it on a unpainted square of the board, where the natural color of the polished wood shone through. "There," he said.

"Illegal move," Trailbreaker informed him.

"What?" Hound said, looking up at him. "No it isn't."

"Yes it is," Trailbreaker replied.

"Brown sectors are neutral," Hound argued.

"Not right now they aren't," Trailbreaker disputed calmly. "I have an alliance with Brown."

"You can't have an alliance with a neutral sector!" Hound protested.

"I can when Red controls the board," Trailbreaker retorted smugly.

Hound frowned, stared at the board a moment, then grabbed the datapad and started paging through it.

Trailbreaker chuckled, casting another amused glance at Wheeljack. "How'd it go today?" he asked in an undertone, his hand idly rubbing Wheeljack's backstrut.

"We survived," he replied in a similarly low tone, shrugging. "The force field held. Perceptor, Brawn and Bumblebee got the _Heart_ out of Megatron and destroyed it."

"Our force field?" Trailbreaker asked quietly, his fingers tracing a seam in Wheeljack's shoulder plating.

"Yeah," he murmured back, his circuits tingling with a warmth that seemed to be made up of equal parts pride and embarrassment. He glanced nervously at Hound, who was still frowning at the datapad in consternation, and added, "It, uh…it ended up getting slagged, but it worked when we needed it. Kept Megatron off us."

"Course it worked," Trailbreaker whispered with a smile, giving him a one-armed hug. "You built it."

He made a soft derisive noise, ready to vocalize a wry retort regarding the accuracy of _that_ statement when he caught a glimpse of Hound out of the corner of his optic. Hound was watching them, an indulgent smile curving his lip components.

Trailbreaker felt him tense under his arm and glanced in the direction he was looking. "You figure out a move yet, Hound?" he asked, his vocalizer resuming its normal register, still carrying a hint of amusement.

Hound twitched in surprise and nearly dropped the datapad. "Uh…almost," he said, fumbling to regain his grip on it. "Gimme a klik."

Trailbreaker cast his optics upward toward the ceiling with a look of mock suffering. "He's like this _every_ time," he murmured into Wheeljack's audial. "Almost makes me feel sorry for Mirage," he added with a chuckle.

"Damn," Hound muttered. "_Alliance with neutral sectors is permitted when Red or Blue are in control of the board,_" he read off the datapad.

"Told ya," Trailbreaker replied.

"All right, all right, don't rub it in," Hound muttered good-naturedly, moving the piece back to its original position and resuming his study of the board.

Trailbreaker cycled an exaggerated sigh through his vents and nudged Wheeljack playfully with his shoulder-strut. "When are you off duty again?" he asked him quietly.

"Three days," he whispered back.

"Got any plans?"

"We should all do something together," Hound chimed in before Wheeljack could reply. "You, Wheeljack, me and Mirage," he clarified in response to their puzzled looks. "Maybe go for a drive. Take in the sights."

"Oh," Trailbreaker said, seemingly untroubled by the fact that Hound had been listening in on their whispered conversation. "I guess we could do that," he said after a moment's thought. "Might be fun." He looked at Wheeljack. "What do you think?"

Wheeljack thought it sounded about as appealing as a drive through an acid rainstorm. He shrugged noncommittally.

"Might be a while before the duty schedule rotation lines up in our favor," Hound mused, "But that just gives us plenty of time to come up with something interesting to do."

"I'll settle for you making your next move," Trailbreaker teased. "I'd like to get some recharge this vorn."

"Okay, okay," Hound said quellingly, scanning the board, picking up a piece and then setting it down again, apparently at random. "There. Happy now?"

"Ecstatic," Trailbreaker deadpanned. He leaned forward slightly, frowning at the board. "What does that move do, exactly?"

Hound mimicked his movement, peering at the board as well. "…I'm not sure," he said finally. Shaking his helm, he picked up the datapad and began paging through it again, periodically glancing between it and the board.

Trailbreaker leaned back again, huffing through his vents. "So, any plans?" he asked Wheeljack quietly, picking up the thread of their interrupted conversation.

"Not really," he admitted. Deciding what to do with his leisure time hadn't been in the forefront of his processor lately.

"We should do something then," Trailbreaker murmured. "I've got a patrol that morning, but I'm free in the afternoon. What do you usually do on your days off?"

"Work in the lab," he confessed sheepishly.

"We could try that Earth game I heard some of the others talking about," Trailbreaker suggested. "Basketball, I think it's called?"

"Maybe," he said.

"We need more than two mechs though, I think." Trailbreaker said. "Hey – maybe we could teach the Dinobots how to play!"

Wheeljack must have looked horrified by the suggestion, because Trailbreaker took one look at him and burst into laughter. "Okay, maybe not," he snickered, giving him an affectionate squeeze. "Don't worry, we'll think of something."

Trailbreaker's laughter was infectious, and the mental image of Grimlock and the other Dinobots trying their hands at basketball _was_ a funny one. His vocal indicators flashed as he chuckled softly.

"Hey…guys?" Hound's voice broke in tentatively, calling their attention back to him. He was staring at the Quatra board with a look of amazed disbelief.

"What's wrong?" Trailbreaker asked him.

"I think I just _won_," Hound replied.

x.x.x.x.x

After bidding farewell to a still-dumbfounded but very happy Hound, Trailbreaker and Wheeljack stepped out into the empty corridor. The door hissed shut behind them, granting them a relative degree of privacy.

"Thank Primus that's over," Trailbreaker commented with a laugh. "I thought that game would never end."

_Ask him now_, Wheeljack thought, looking up at him, but his vocalizer refused to activate.

Trailbreaker met his optics, smiling fondly. "It was really nice having you there. Thanks for coming."

"No problem," he said with a shrug. _Ask him!_

"Well…guess I'd better be getting back to my quarters," Trailbreaker said.

"I'll walk with you," he offered, to buy himself some time.

Trailbreaker beamed in response to his words, reaching for his hand and taking it in his own, interlacing their fingers. "I'd like that," he said.

It was a short walk. Trailbreaker's quarters were only around a corner and a few doors down from Hound's. Trailbreaker punched in the locking code with his free hand, still clasping Wheeljack's in the other. The door slid open obligingly, revealing the darkened room beyond.

Trailbreaker looked at him. "See you tomorrow?" he asked.

_He_ _had to ask. He was running out of time._ "Yeah," he said.

Trailbreaker glanced at the open doorway, then down at their hands, still intertwined. "Guess I should go in now, huh?" he said with a nervous smile.

"Yeah," he said. His vocal indicators barely flickered over the word.

Trailbreaker looked up at him then, meeting his optics. For a long moment neither of them spoke.

"Want to come with me?" Trailbreaker asked softly.

"Yeah," he whispered.

Trailbreaker pulled him inside.

x.x.x.x.x

The door hissed shut behind him, cutting them off from the brightly lit corridor and leaving the room shrouded in darkness. Wheeljack could just make out Trailbreaker's angular silhouette in the dimness, his black paint blending into the shadows, the faint glow of his optics barely piercing the gloom.

Trailbreaker's hand slipped from his, and suddenly both it and its twin were groping at his frame, moving urgently over his chassis. The faint illumination surrounding them increased as Trailbreaker's optics lit with desire. Wheeljack could feel the heat pouring off him, radiating out from Trailbreaker's core as the larger mech pressed into him. An astrosecond later, Trailbreaker extended his energy field.

It wasn't at all tentative.

Wheeljack tried to take a step back, to retreat, but the closed door behind him blocked his only route of escape. Trailbreaker reached for him again, rumbling his name in seductive, near-subsonic tones, and Wheeljack flinched, one of his sensor-winglets scraping painfully against the metal door behind him. The sharp, unexpected flare of pain and the sudden screech of metal against metal startled him, made him wince, hissing air through his intakes.

Trailbreaker abruptly halted his advance, the brilliant blue glow surrounding them fading. "You okay?" he asked, in a tone that held more concern than lust.

"Yeah," he replied, awkwardly shrugging the shoulder-strut that housed the injured appendage. "Ow."

"Sorry," Trailbreaker said with obvious chagrin. He reached out to stroke the offended winglet, tracing a fingertip lightly over its edge in an effort to soothe the aggravated sensors. "You sure you're okay?"

"It's fine," he said shortly. _This is the price, Wheeljack,_ he told himself. _Time to pay up_.

"Maybe we should stick to doing things the old fashioned way," Trailbreaker suggested wryly. He tugged Wheeljack toward the berth, drew him down to sit beside him. "I'm really sorry," he said, tenderly caressing Wheeljack's chestplate. "It's just, I've been thinking about you all day. Guess I got a little carried away."

"It's fine," he said again.

"No, it's not," Trailbreaker said. "It's stupid, and greedy. I shouldn't be in such a rush; I should be taking my time." He leaned in close, his field flickering teasingly as he ran a slow hand up Wheeljack's backstrut, making his intakes hitch. "I want to enjoy this," he said. "I want to savor every astrosecond I'm with you."

The words made his spark flutter, caused his circuits to heat with the sincerity of Trailbreaker's tone. Hesitantly, Wheeljack extended his own energy field, reaching tentatively outward to greet him.

Trailbreaker groaned and pressed forward, mingling their fields, synching their frequencies. His hands once more resumed their motion, exploring Wheeljack's chassis slowly, reverently.

He fell back under that gentle touch, surrendering himself to those questing hands. Trailbreaker moved over him, lightly scraping their chestplates, making Wheeljack's circuits sing with sensation as Trailbreaker settled on top of him. Trailbreaker's armor was searing, humming with a heavy charge that bespoke of significant and long-denied arousal. Even as he thought it, he heard Trailbreaker's internal fans spring to life with a muted roar.

"You're so _gorgeous_," Trailbreaker whispered ardently, his hands working their way downward, his fingertips dipping into the sideseams of Wheeljack's armor along the way. "I get wound up just _looking_ at you."

He stared up at him in surprise, "_Me?"_ he asked incredulously. He'd been appreciated before, for his intellect, his speed, his skill, but never for his _frame_.

"You've got incredible lines," Trailbreaker affirmed, his vocalizer crackling with desire. "All sleek curves and strong angles –" he trailed off with a shudder, his hands moving demonstratively in time with his words, tracing over the arc of Wheeljack's windshield, down the flat planes of his hip plate. "Primus," he laughed suddenly, shakily. "I'm so revved, it's ridiculous. You haven't even touched me."

A sudden flare of warmth suffused his spark, his core temperature climbing several degrees in response to Trailbreaker's open admiration and skillfully roving hands. Hard on its heels came a hot surge of guilt, at the reminder of his failure to hold up his end of the encounter. He shifted his right leg, bending it at the knee so that it scraped against Trailbreaker's thigh plate, and lifted his hands to touch him in return, reaching for the underside of his bumper –

"Don't," Trailbreaker said urgently, catching his hands in his own, halting them short of their goal. "Don't touch me. If you touch me, I'll overload," he confessed, panting heavily through his intakes, trying to keep his overheated systems in check.

The unexpected admission, the sheer _intensity_ of Trailbreaker's arousal made Wheeljack's core temperature spike, his cooling fans abruptly ticking over. Denied his hands, he arched his backstrut and extended his energy field, pressing into the larger mech with both field and frame.

"_Oh_," Trailbreaker gasped, answering Wheeljack's field salvo with his own. "Oh, _Primus_." He released Wheeljack's hands to plunge his own down between them, seeking out the gaps between Wheeljack's hip and thigh plates and burying his fingertips deep into the wires and cables nestled within, stroking and tugging feverishly.

The resulting burst of pleasure was so sudden and acute he cried out, his field flaring raggedly as he jerked in involuntary spasms. His own desire ramped in intensity with a speed that was downright startling, spiraling rapidly to a near-unsustainable peak, making him shudder and moan helplessly.

"I'm really close," Trailbreaker panted, sounding almost apologetic. "You almost there?"

"Yeah," he gasped, straining against him. He fumbled in the dark for Trailbreaker's hands, gripping them in his own, "_hands…_"

"Primus," Trailbreaker said incredulously, obligingly rubbing his thumbs firmly across the proffered palms. "You have sensors in your _hands?_"

Wheeljack overloaded before he could vocalize an affirmative reply.

x.x.x.x.x

Afterward they lay in sated silence, entangled on the berth, listening to the rhythmic sounds of cooling metal, spinning fans and laboring intakes as their systems slowly cycled down, the faint scent of ozone hanging in the air like erotic perfume.

Trailbreaker's overload had immediately followed his own, set off by the burst of energy that accompanied Wheeljack's release. Trailbreaker's hands had clenched spasmodically as he twitched and shuddered in the throes of ecstasy; Wheeljack's confused sensors had been unable to classify the sensation as either _pleasure_ or _pain _and finally settled somewhere in-between, leaving them tingling in the aftermath with a curiously pleasant soreness.

For Wheeljack, the silence between them was pensive. His circuits hummed with a pleasurable lassitude, his hands tingled delightfully, but his processor was preoccupied with far weightier concerns.

He'd accomplished his goal, but guilt tugged at his spark. Trailbreaker had been so obviously and emphatically _into_ him – it had been intensely arousing, more so than he would have even thought possible – but it had also shamed him, bringing Ratchet's words once more to the forefront of his CPU:

_What you're doing to Trailbreaker is __wrong,__ and you know it._

Of course Ratchet was biased; he'd probably only said that because he wanted Wheeljack for himself.

He glanced up at Trailbreaker, still sprawled on top of him, his optics dimmed and distant, an expression of satiation and quiet contentment on his faceplate. Trailbreaker wasn't complaining. And it wasn't as if Wheeljack was the only one benefiting from their association. It was a trade-off. It was perfectly fair.

But the guilt still nagged at him, as persistent and troubling as an unidentified engine rattle.

Trailbreaker chose that moment to rouse himself from his post-overload haze, his optics brightening and focusing on Wheeljack's, meeting his gaze. He smiled and rubbed his arm affectionately, commenting, "You're really quiet. What are you thinking about?"

"Just…things," he replied evasively. "It was nice," he added, just to reassure him.

Trailbreaker's optics illuminated just enough of his faceplate for Wheeljack to see his smile. "It was more than _nice_," he replied with a trace of amusement. But then he sobered. "You've been quiet all night," he said. "What's eating up all your RAM?"

He shifted uncomfortably, suddenly finding the heat and weight of Trailbreaker's larger frame atop him unpleasantly burdensome. _I feel guilty because I'm just using you_ wasn't exactly the sort of response he could readily volunteer. "Nothing, really," he said. "Just the usual."

Trailbreaker was silent for a klik, seemingly mulling over his vague statement. "Did you ever work things out with Ratchet?" he asked, revealing the progression of his thoughts.

"No," he admitted. "I, uh, did run into him tonight though, on my way to find you."

"_Oh_," Trailbreaker said with sudden understanding. "How'd _that_ go?"

"Bad," he said.

"He still mad?"

"No," he replied pensively. "I was." He shifted uncomfortably again, and this time Trailbreaker noticed, shifting his weight and easing some of it off him. "I think he was trying to apologize," he admitted.

"You didn't let him," Trailbreaker guessed. "You're still mad at him."

"Yeah. I guess," he said. "I, uh…I said some pretty harsh things to him. He looked really upset."

"And now you're regretting it," Trailbreaker concluded.

"Yeah," he admitted.

"Sounds to me like you both want to be friends again," Trailbreaker opined. "That's a step in the right direction. Time will take care of the rest."

Wheeljack looked up at him, strangely comforted by his reassurance. "Yeah," he said softly. "Thanks."

Trailbreaker smiled. "You okay to recharge like this?" he asked.

The question was an uncomfortable reminder of his _other_ guilt, of why he was here. "Yeah," he said.

Trailbreaker grinned and bumped his helm gently with his own. "See you in the morning," he said, and settled more comfortably against him, offlining his optics. Within a few kliks Wheeljack heard the subtle change in the steady hum of his systems that indicated he'd slipped into recharge.

It took him significantly longer to do the same.


	22. Annihilation

**Title: **After Atlantis  
**Obligatory Disclaimer:** I don't own Transformers. This chapter contains references to the G1 cartoon two-part episode_ "Megatron's Master Plan," _plus a teeny nod to _"The Ultimate Doom." _Additional episodes will be referenced in future chapters.  
**Warnings: **PTSD angst, references to rape, references to sex.  
**Author's Note: **Whew! Another huge chapter! They're pretty much all going to be like this from here on out, so I'm going to stop commenting on it. Not as many reviews on the last couple chapters – am I losing you guys? Sorry about that! I promise things will get more interesting soon. Only 8 more chapters to go!

**Chapter 22: Annihilation**

Wheeljack was roused from recharge by Trailbreaker climbing over him.

His servos tensed as he stiffened in alarm. But Trailbreaker simply proceeded to rise from the berth and make his way to the door, activating the mechanism. As the door slid open, Wheeljack struggled to sit up, his processor hazy from being pulled prematurely from its recharge cycle.

"I'm gonna do it, 'Breaker," someone said. "I'm finally gonna give it to him!"

It took him a few astroseconds to recognize the voice as Hound's. By then Trailbreaker was already responding, "That's great, Hound," in a less-than-enthusiastic tone.

There was a pause. "Oh, sorry, did I drag you out of recharge?" he heard Hound ask. Hound didn't sound especially apologetic – his vocalizer transmitted a hectic blend of excitement and apprehension.

"It's all right," Trailbreaker replied. "I had to get up anyway."

"You think Mirage'll like it?" Hound asked anxiously, apparently having second thoughts.

"He'll love it," Trailbreaker reassured him.

"What if he doesn't like Quatra?" Hound asked nervously. "I know it's a Towers game, but what if it turns out to be the one thing about the Towers Mirage has always hated?"

"He'll still be touched that you made it for him," Trailbreaker replied patiently. "You spent _orns_ putting that board together, Hound! You even learned how to _play_ so he'd actually be able to use it. Even if he hates the game, he'll love that you did all that for him."

Hound seemed mollified by Trailbreaker's reasoning. "Yeah, you're right. I'll give it to him today."

"He'll love it," Trailbreaker said again. "Don't worry."

"You want to go and get some energon?" Hound asked.

Trailbreaker hesitated, glancing back at Wheeljack as if suddenly remembering he was there. "Uh…"

"What's wrong?" Hound asked, peering past him. His optics lit briefly as he spied Wheeljack seated on the berth, and his smile broadened into a grin. "Oh, I see. Morning, Wheeljack!" he called cheerfully.

Wheeljack's circuits heated with embarrassment. "Hey, Hound," he replied.

"Feel like getting some energon?" Hound asked him. "I'm betting you both could use it," he added with a teasing glance at Trailbreaker, who responded with a sheepish shrug.

"Sure," he said, resigning himself to his fate.

x.x.x.x.x

Wheeljack stared blankly at the monitors, barely registering their output.

He'd excused himself only a few breems after they arrived in the common room, quietly consuming half his cube while the two friends talked and joked with one another before stowing the remainder in his subspace compartment and announcing that he had to report for duty. Trailbreaker had smiled fondly at him as he made his farewells. Hound had grinned and speculated aloud that he'd be seeing him later.

Wheeljack had felt lower than an oil stain.

Last night's guilt had returned in force, accompanied by a bitter undercurrent of envy at the easy camaraderie the two mechs shared. A surge of self-disgust had welled up in his spark, thick and choking, and for a moment he'd almost hated them. _He'd_ been like that once, mellow and untroubled, able to laugh and swap jokes with his friends, to play games and make plans that didn't involve threatening them or deceiving them with lies. He might as well have been a Decepticon, with the way he was behaving lately.

He wished he'd been deactivated that day, that Nergill's weapon had extinguished his spark. That would have been better.

Starscream had ruined him.

He wondered if the others were fighting Starscream now. Teletraan-1 had detected Decepticon activity at the new solar power facility in Central City shortly after he arrived for his shift. Optimus Prime, Ironhide, Bumblebee, Smokescreen, Warpath and Tracks had gone to deal with the raiding 'Cons.

That had been several joors ago.

He was about to comm the group to request a status report when he heard them return. He knew instantly that they'd been victorious – their approaching voices were jubilant, chattering excitedly.

"I still say it's about time," Spike said as he came in.

"It seems a little silly to me," Bumblebee replied. "It's not as if we wouldn't have saved them anyway. We fight the Decepticons all the time."

"Which is why you _deserve_ to be recognized," Spike insisted. "You guys have saved us and our planet dozens of times; it's about time someone noticed."

"It _is_ nice to finally be appreciated for our efforts," Tracks said.

Wheeljack looked at Optimus Prime, who'd entered with the rest but thus far remained silent. "What's going on, Optimus?"

"The mayor of Central City wishes for the Autobots to attend a ceremony at City Hall tomorrow, in gratitude for stopping the Decepticons today," Optimus Prime explained.

"It's to honor you all, Wheeljack!" Spike said. "The news crews that were there for the grand opening filmed the whole thing, and the mayor's going to show the video during the ceremony! He's even throwing a parade! Isn't it great?"

"Yeah," he said. "That sounds really nice."

x.x.x.x.x

The rest of his shift had been uneventful. When it ended, Wheeljack headed for his quarters.

He wasn't looking forward to facing another night of sensor echoes and interrupted recharge, but he couldn't bring himself to go looking for Trailbreaker again. He hated himself enough already.

Trailbreaker was a good mech. He deserved better than a screwed-up pile of scrap like Wheeljack.

_Maybe I_ should_ tell him the truth,_ he thought bitterly. _Tell him the mech he's been 'facing is nothing but a filthy 'Con's leftovers._

It would certainly solve the problem. Trailbreaker wouldprobably purge his tanks right then and there.

His own fuel tank churned at the thought, at the look of revulsion he imagined overtaking Trailbreaker's faceplate when he learned the disgusting truth about his new lover.

There'd be no more affectionate touches, then. No more words of admiration or optics that glowed with desire when they looked at him. No more shy, tentative field flares or requests to interface. Trailbreaker wouldn't want him anymore.

And once the word got out, no one else would, either.

Well…maybe Ratchet would. But how long would even Ratchet's interest last once the whole _Ark_ knew the truth? Associating with a tainted, defective mech like him would render Ratchet equally undesirable in the optics of his peers, and Ratchet was far too fond of casual interfacing to settle for Wheeljack – and _only_ Wheeljack – forever. His interest was sure to wane, and then...

He keyed in the locking code on his door, feeling spark-sick. Spurning the berth, he made his way to his chair as the door slid shut behind him, slumping into it with a soft _clank_.

It surprised him that he actually _cared_. After it had happened, he'd felt certain he'd never want to interface with anyone ever again. If someone had told him then that he'd never have to, that no one would ever ask, he'd have welcomed the news. But now…

He'd felt a little apprehensive last night initially, what with Trailbreaker being so…enthusiastic, but he hadn't locked up the way he had the first time they'd interfaced. He wasn't sure why, but for whatever reason, he'd been…okay with it. Okay with being pinned beneath the larger mech, with not being in control.

He'd even kind of liked it. It had been…nice.

He thought about the way Trailbreaker had touched him that night, shivering at the remembered sensations. Trailbreaker's eager touches had been ardent and admiring, almost worshipful. It had felt _good_ to be treated like that, like he was something rare and valuable. But it had also been painful. Deep in his spark, Wheeljack knew he wasn't worthy.

He didn't deserve to be touched like that.

x.x.x.x.x

An internal reminder chimed, pulling him out of standby mode. Wheeljack rose groggily from his chair, feeling the lack of recharge in the sluggish response of his systems, but unable to do anything to rectify it.

It probably wouldn't matter today, anyway. Today was the day the mayor of Central City had chosen to honor them, and every Autobot – with the exception of Prowl and Red Alert, who'd insisted on remaining behind to ensure the _Ark_ wasn't left undefended, and a handful of others who'd agreed to remain to support them, or were camera-shy – had been invited to attend.

Wheeljack would have remained behind himself, if not for Sparkplug, Spike and Chip being so enthused about the whole thing. The humans knew him well enough to regard a refusal to participate on his part to be uncharacteristic of him, and therefore something to question.

The last thing he wanted was questions, so he'd had no choice but to go along with the rest.

The parade itself had been rather boring due to the extremely slow speed they were expected to drive, but the cheers and applause from the humans who'd gathered to honor them – including Spike, Sparkplug, and Chip, who'd opted to join the crowd of observers rather than riding along with one of the 'Bots – had helped to mitigate that. Wheeljack had been positioned in the leading row, which put him too close to the human marching band and their drums for his taste, but only two mechs over from Optimus Prime himself, flanked by Ironhide and Jazz, which was good, and trailed by Hound, which was…awkward, but tolerable. Trailbreaker had stayed behind to help guard the _Ark_, and Ratchet was a whole two rows behind him.

The parade had concluded at the entrance to City Hall, where the mayor waited to extend whatever honor he intended to bestow, but prior to that, he intended to show the video of the previous day's heroics. When the Autobots arrived, the mayor had made a brief speech, and rolled the tape.

It wasn't them.

Ironhide was the first to notice that something was amiss, pointing out that they were looking at an oil field, not a solar power plant. As the video continued to play, the Autobots could only look on in horror as Megatron tarred their reputations with lies and false evidence.

Wheeljack was outraged and disgusted by the fake footage. Of the three clips shown, only he and Ironhide appeared in all three, and his doppelganger had been granted a key role in the second, gleefully describing an invention he'd allegedly made which would reprogram honorable mechs to evil, forcing them to commit random acts of destruction.

_Megatron_ did that, not him! Wheeljack would _never_ create such a repugnant device. But there "he" was, being broadcast to Primus-knew-how-many viewers, proudly proclaiming his intent to perform one of the most base and immoral acts a Cybertronian could conceive.

It was _beyond_ offensive. Not to mention utterly humiliating.

Needless to say, they didn't receive any accolades. Instead they received a warning not to leave the area, and were pelted with various organic substances as they departed from City Hall, flung by the same crowd that had originally gathered to honor them. In a moving display of loyalty, Spike, Sparkplug and Chip had stood with them, an act which earned them the animosity of their fellow humans. They'd called them traitors.

They returned to the _Ark_ in disgrace.

x.x.x.x.x

"I can't believe it," Sparkplug said angrily as he bent over Wheeljack's right foot, struggling to extract the pulped remains of a tomato that had gotten lodged in the grill of his alt mode. "Those stupid, ungrateful, sonova –" he halted abruptly, glancing at his son, "…guns," he finished lamely.

"You can say it, Dad," Spike told him, smirking. "We're all thinking it anyway."

Sparkplug shook his head, a fleeting smile flashing across his features like a ray of sunlight on a cloudy day before his expression darkened again. "It just makes me so mad," he continued, finally getting the last of the smashed fruit free. He straightened, meeting Wheeljack's gaze. "All the times you guys have saved us from the Decepticons, and all it took was one phony videotape for them to turn on you. Makes me ashamed to be human."

Wheeljack regarded his friend with sympathy. "They turned on you too," he pointed out. "Maybe you shouldn't have come back with us. Maybe you should've stayed clear until we sort this mess out."

"No way," Sparkplug replied loyally. "You've personally saved my son's life at least three times I can think of, Wheeljack. You saved mine when that mad scientist brainwashed me, and when that welder grabbed me." He sighed. "You've _all_ saved our lives so many times…"

"We'll think of something," Bumblebee said optimistically. "We've beaten Megatron before, we can do it again."

"That's not even counting all the times you saved our entire _planet,_" Sparkplug persisted. "We're not going anywhere. It's gonna take a lot more than a few tomatoes to scare us off." He paused to wipe his hands on an old rag. "You 'Bots need us now more than ever. Someone's got to stand up for you. If I could just talk to the mayor, I know I could convince him it was all a lie –"

"There's got to be some way we can prove it," Chip broke in. "Some kind of evidence that the footage was faked. I wonder how they did it..?"

"If only there was a way we could spy on them and find out," Spike mused. "Hey! What if Mirage were to sneak into the Decepticon base and listen in on what they were planning – maybe even record them so we could show it as proof that Megatron was lying?"

"That's a good idea, Spike," Bumblebee said. "We should tell it to Optimus."

Bumblebee and the two young humans hurried off while Sparkplug and Wheeljack remained behind at the monitors, watching as the trio made their way over to where Optimus Prime was standing with the other 'Bots who'd attended the ceremony. For the moment it appeared that Sunstreaker had the floor – complaining, no doubt, Wheeljack surmised, about the damage the angry mob had done to his finish.

"Hey, Wheeljack – what's going on with Ratchet?" Sparkplug asked suddenly.

He looked at him in surprise. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, that's right, you haven't been in the repair bay lately," Sparkplug said. "Ratchet's been acting kind of weird," he explained. "He doesn't joke around, or even complain anymore – he hardly talks at all! If I didn't know better, I'd say he was depressed."

"Oh," he said. He had a good idea why that might be the case.

"I tried asking him what was wrong, but he wouldn't tell me," Sparkplug said. "You're his friend, maybe you should try talking to him."

Wheeljack tensed at the suggestion. "I, uh…I don't think that's a good idea, Sparkplug."

"Why not?" Sparkplug asked, regarding him quizzically. "Whatever's bothering him, I'm sure he'd tell _you_…" He trailed off, cocking his head as Wheeljack shifted uncomfortably. "Wait a minute…why _haven't_ you been in the repair bay lately? Is _that_ why Ratchet's been so moody? Did you two have a fight or something?"

He turned back to the monitors, ostensibly to check the readouts, avoiding the human's gaze.

"Oh, don't _you_ start now," Sparkplug said, a hint of exasperation coloring his tone. "What's going on, Wheeljack? Are you and Ratchet fighting, or what?"

Wheeljack hesitated, struggling to find a suitably innocuous answer to Sparkplug's question without resorting to an outright lie. "…it's, um…it's complicated," he said finally.

Sparkplug barked a startled laugh. "'_Complicated'?_" he repeated. "Jeez, Wheeljack, you make it sound like you and Ratchet are…oh my God." His eyes widened, his mouth falling open in shock.

Wheeljack stiffened as he glanced back and caught sight of the look of dawning revelation on Sparkplug's face. Sparkplug was staring at him like he'd never seen him before. The _humans weren't supposed to know..!_

"My God, Wheeljack," Sparkplug breathed. "Are you and R–?"

Teletraan-1's warning klaxon blared, drowning out the rest of his question.

Wheeljack turned briskly back to the monitors. "External security breached!" he reported.

"Get a visual, Wheeljack," Prime ordered.

Wheeljack hastily obeyed. A fleet of tanks appeared on the monitors, tanks owned by the mayor's rival, a wealthy businessman by the name of Shawn Berger, the same businessman who had donated the solar energy facility to the city. A helicopter hovered above them, carrying Berger himself. As the tanks approached, a P.A. system crackled to life, broadcasting a demand for the Autobots' immediate surrender.

They exited the _Ark_, going out to meet the oncoming army. Some of the 'Bots had wanted to fight, to demonstrate just how laughable a threat Berger's tanks really were, but Optimus Prime advised caution. His wisdom was borne out when the mayor's voice came over the P.A. a moment later, announcing that all of the Autobots were under arrest.

Following Optimus Prime's orders, they surrendered without a fight.

x.x.x.x.x

The mayor had promised them a fair trial, and the humans had done their best to provide it. The Autobots were led to a football stadium where a judge waited to hear their case. A massive crowd had gathered to hear the trial and verdict; Spike, Sparkplug and Chip joined them in the stands.

The star witness for the prosecution was Shawn Berger. In the midst of his testimony, the Decepticons arrived. The Autobots eyed them suspiciously, but Megatron's forces made no move to attack, seemingly content to observe the proceedings with a gloating air of triumph.

The sight of Starscream standing among them made Wheeljack's spark clench in apprehension. He couldn't keep his optics focused on the judge; he kept glancing back over his shoulder-strut to sneak wary looks at the Seeker. At one point their optics met, and Starscream smirked.

Wheeljack looked away quickly, his hands beginning to shake.

Thanking Berger for his testimony, the judge stepped up to the podium, prepared to render his decision. Mustering all his will, Wheeljack glanced back at Starscream again, only to find his view of the Seeker blocked by a red and white chassis.

_Ratchet_.

He turned back hastily, praying Ratchet hadn't seen him looking. He was just in time to hear the judge's verdict.

Guilty. They were sentenced to exile in deep space, never to return to Earth.

x.x.x.x.x

The mood aboard the starship was bleak.

"I'm going to miss Earth," Hound commented in a melancholy tone. "It was such a beautiful planet."

"It'll be good to see Cybertron again," Mirage volunteered, trying to cheer him.

"Cybertron's not what it used to be," Hound replied, slouching dejectedly in his seat.

No one seemed inclined to dispute his statement.

Wheeljack tried to console himself with the knowledge that he'd probably never see Starscream again, but the gloom that permeated the ship was oppressive, and he couldn't help but worry about what would happen to Sparkplug, Spike, Chip, and all their other human allies. What if Megatron decided to make an example of them, as punishment for aiding the Autobots? The thought of them being tortured or deactivated sent a chill through his spark.

While he worried about the fate of their friends, the mood on the ship continued to deteriorate, going from depressed to downright contentious. Ironhide began sniping at Cosmos, and then turned his venom on Hound when the tracker tried to intervene on Cosmos' behalf. The next thing they knew, Ironhide was glaring at Optimus Prime and loudly stating that the blame for their current situation lay entirely on him.

The other Autobots were stunned by the open attack on their commander. Even Prime himself seemed taken aback. To their even greater shock, Optimus admitted that he might have made a mistake.

Cliffjumper leapt from his seat, declaring that there was still time to turn around and go back – but when Optimus Prime approved the suggestion and Cliffjumper attempted to change their course, they discovered to their dismay that it had been locked in.

It was a bad sign.

Hound checked their trajectory, and the news got even worse. They were on a collision course…with the _sun_.

x.x.x.x.x

Everyone was overheating.

It was perfectly understandable, given their heading. The temperature was increasing with every passing astrosecond. Optimus had ordered Cosmos to do something, and Cosmos had tried, but to no avail. Teletraan-1 had charted their course, and there was no way for them to alter it. The _Ark's_ master computer was now well out of range of their comms.

They were doomed.

Wheeljack glanced around, taking in the despairing expressions on the faceplates of the mechs surrounding him. As he surveyed the room, his gaze fell on Ratchet, and their optics locked.

They shared a look of grim determination.

"Everyone, line up," Ratchet ordered. "I'll deal with you one at a time. Wheeljack?"

He nodded and stood. "Form two lines," he said.

"Three lines," Hoist chimed in.

"Four," Perceptor said, rising to his feet.

They set to work.

For nearly a joor they fought against the inevitable, repairing the damage caused by overheating circuitry, performing increasingly creative field patches to stave off the killing heat. They worked tirelessly, pausing only when their own circuits began to spark and flare, at which point whichever of the other repair 'Bots was closest would wordlessly step in and perform a quick repair on their colleague. That accomplished, both mechs would resume their previous efforts.

Wheeljack barely acknowledged it when a shower of sparks exploded from his shoulder-strut as he endeavored to prevent a similar occurrence from taking place in Windcharger, the current focus of his attention. A moment later he felt the touch of another's hands, moving with swift assurance as they repaired the damage. He finished with Windcharger, and looked back to see who had come to his aid.

It was Ratchet.

He activated his vocalizer to thank him, but Ratchet moved briskly away without ever meeting his optics.

A wave of sorrow swept over him. He didn't want to deactivate like this. He didn't want to die angry at the best friend he'd ever had. Regardless of what had happened between them, Wheeljack couldn't bear the thought that _this_ was how it was all going to end.

He wanted to tell Ratchet that, to tell him he was sorry for all the awful things he'd said to him, but Ratchet was already on the other side of the ship, working on his next patient. Wheeljack looked back to find Sideswipe standing in front of him, regarding him with expectant optics. Sideswipe's circuits were sparking badly, and he was so overheated that just being near him caused Wheeljack's own core temperature to climb several degrees.

He got back to work.

In the end, it was a losing battle. Many of the 'Bots who'd been first to undergo repairs were already returning to the end of the line with fresh damage, and by the beginning of the second joor, Wheeljack began to succumb to despair.

_What's the point?_ he thought bleakly. _What good does it do if we're still marginally functional when we all finally go offline? When the ship breaks apart and we're all vaporized by the sun?_

That was when he knew it was hopeless.

Suddenly too weak to stand, he sank into a nearby seat. He looked around again, peering through the haze of smoke from frying circuitry, and saw similar expressions of defeat on those gathered around him.

Hoist had already given up, and was huddled in Grapple's arms. Optimus Prime's helm was in his hands, his shoulder-struts slumped, his optics hidden from view. Off to his right, Inferno and Red Alert were clinging to each other, and towards the back of the ship he spied Hound and Mirage, locked together in a close embrace – but not so close Wheeljack couldn't see the way they shuddered against one another, or the cables that discreetly connected them.

He politely averted his gaze.

A gentle hand fell on his shoulder-strut, and he looked up, his spark flaring with sudden hope – perhaps there was still a chance to tell Ratchet he was sorry – and found Trailbreaker gazing sorrowfully down at him.

"I guess this is it," Trailbreaker said.

"Yeah," he said. "I guess so."

Trailbreaker shifted awkwardly, glancing around. Wheeljack noted his gaze passed over Hound and Mirage before coming back to rest on him.

"Feel like saying goodbye?" Trailbreaker asked.

His tone was light, almost casual, but the expression in his optics was practically pleading, filled with terrible loneliness and a sort of quiet desperation.

Shame burned through Wheeljack's circuits, along with an inexplicable flare of embarrassment – he'd never been a fan of public interfacing – and as foolish as modesty seemed now, in their current situation, Wheeljack couldn't force himself to say what Trailbreaker so clearly longed to hear.

"I can't," he said. "I'm sorry. I just…I can't."

The look of _hurt_ his words provoked was unbearable. He lowered his helm, hiding his face in his hands.

He didn't see Trailbreaker's anguished expression change into one of fierce resolve.

x.x.x.x.x

Trailbreaker had saved them all.

Just when it seemed all hope had been lost, when all else had failed and the ship had begun to break apart, Trailbreaker had activated his force field, encasing them all in a shimmering globe of safety, shielding them from certain doom.

It was an audacious and impossibly heroic act, humbling to all who witnessed it.

Reenergized by sudden, desperate hope, he and Ratchet had immediately rushed to the aid of the valiant mech, performing on-the-spot repairs as his overtaxed systems succumbed one by one to the phenomenal strain, keeping him functional, keeping the force field intact.

It would all have been for nothing anyway; without the ship only Cosmos could lead them, and Cosmos' navigation systems were still tied to Teletraan-1 – but then, inexplicably, he was freed.

Cosmos was quick to change his course to a new heading that would take them back to Earth, but as he did so, a relay in one of Trailbreaker's elbow-joints gave way, emitting a brilliant flash of light that momentarily blinded them. As Ratchet moved to assess the damage, another flared out, and then another.

There were no words. No sound would carry in the airless void of space. Trailbreaker couldn't spare the energy to transmit even a short message over his comm, and Wheeljack and Ratchet were too busy fighting to stay one step ahead of his failing systems to waste time on small talk. The three 'Bots could sense the rapid flurry of signals flickering back and forth among those around them, but paid them no heed.

They were rapidly approaching the Earth, but Trailbreaker's systems were breaking down faster than they could repair them. Drained and damaged as they were by the earlier heat, he and Ratchet were beginning to falter, their efforts slowing as their energy reserves waned.

Trailbreaker suddenly stiffened and shuddered, a cascade of sparks bursting from his midsection, winking out instantly in the vacuum. Another vital connection had blown.

Optics widening in alarm, Wheeljack met his silent gaze. Strain and agony dominated Trailbreaker's expression, but in his optics Wheeljack saw only courage, unwavering conviction, and – to his surprise – _trust_.

_Not yet,_ he thought desperately, shaking his helm in denial. _Please, not yet. We're almost there. Just hang on a little longer._

Recognizing his silent plea, Trailbreaker gave the faintest of nods.

Bolstered by his determination, Wheeljack resumed his efforts, repairing the damaged circuit.

x.x.x.x.x

They made it back to Earth, ragged, battered and depleted – but alive.

Universally inspired by Trailbreaker's courage and selfless fortitude, they'd confronted the Decepticons head-on, pushing their exhaustion aside and standing shoulder-strut to shoulder-strut, drowning their foes in a storm of laser fire.

Outnumbered and in disarray, the 'Cons had had no choice but to withdraw.

The humans who had been enslaved by the Decepticons in their absence were freed – Chip, Sparkplug, Spike, the mayor and even Berger among them – and the Autobots returned to the _Ark_ in triumph.

x.x.x.x.x

When they got back, Ratchet announced that Trailbreaker was first in line for repairs. Not even Gears complained about the decision.

"Shouldn't Optimus be the one to go first?" Trailbreaker protested as they led him to a repair berth. He'd stumbled just beyond the entrance of the _Ark_, falling to his knees, too depleted to stand. Wheeljack had helped him up, and together he and Ratchet had supported him as they made their way to the repair bay, flanking him on either side.

"Optimus will be fine," Ratchet replied, his tone daring Trailbreaker to argue as he eased him onto the berth. "It's _you_ I'm worried about."

Wheeljack didn't miss the pointed look Ratchet aimed in his direction, or the hidden implication. Hot shame burned through his circuits. Bowing his helm, he turned to leave.

Trailbreaker caught hold of his hand, halting him. "Don't go," he said, his expression pensive. "Please? I…I'd like you to stay."

Wheeljack looked at him, then at Ratchet.

Trailbreaker followed his gaze. "It's all right if Wheeljack stays, isn't it Ratchet?" he asked.

Ratchet rumbled irritably. "Fine, whatever," he muttered.

Ratchet worked on Trailbreaker well into the night, ignoring his own injuries. He worked in silence, utterly focused on his task.

Throughout it all Wheeljack remained at Trailbreaker's side, offering what little comfort he could. It felt woefully inadequate after everything Trailbreaker had done, after what Wheeljack had done _to_ him, but Trailbreaker nevertheless clung to his hand as if it were the only solid thing left in the universe.

Finally, a mere handful of joors before dawn, Ratchet announced he could do no more. "Your regenerative systems will take care of the rest," he told Trailbreaker. "I'm taking you off active duty for a couple of days. Refuel and get some rest."

"You got it, doc," Trailbreaker replied, his vocalizer husky with exhaustion.

"I mean it," Ratchet said, with a forbidding glare that Wheeljack sensed was at least partly directed at him. "Absolutely _no_ strenuous activity, or so help me…"

"I'll be good," Trailbreaker replied with a weak chuckle, "I promise."

Since Ratchet had given Trailbreaker the all clear, Wheeljack helped him to his feet, taking as much of the larger mech's weight as he could bear onto his shoulder-struts. Trailbreaker leaned on him heavily, betraying his exhaustion. Wheeljack's hand was still gripped tightly in his own.

Wheeljack looked at Ratchet, intending to thank him, or perhaps offer some form of oblique apology as he recalled his feelings of regret in that final, desperate moment when it seemed all hope had been lost.

The words died before he could utter them when he saw the way Ratchet was glowering at him. There would be no forgiveness today.

He departed the repair bay with Trailbreaker in silence.


	23. Admiration

**Title: **After Atlantis  
**Obligatory Disclaimer:** I don't own Transformers.  
**Warnings: **PTSD angst, references to rape, references to sex, sexual situations.  
**Author's Note: **Hi! Sorry I'm so late with this chapter, but as you'll see, it's ridiculously long – over 8.5K! It also contains a heck of a lot of sex. In my defense, there're some important plot points mixed in with the smut, so technically it's justified. The fact that it's also _hot_ is strictly a bonus. *grin*

**Chapter 23: Admiration**

The walk back to Trailbreaker's quarters was more like a receiving line.

'Bot after 'Bot waylaid them in the corridors, offering words of praise, goodwill, and gratitude, and in many cases, gifts. None of the Autobots had an abundance of personal possessions, but even the stingiest of minibots seemed eager to surrender whatever useful item they happened to have on hand in appreciation of Trailbreaker's heroism.

Trailbreaker received them all with a sheepish sort of modesty, seemingly abashed by all the attention. Since his hands were occupied with clinging to Wheeljack for support, Wheeljack accepted the offerings on his behalf, absently tucking them into his subspace compartment.

By the time they reached Trailbreaker's quarters, his subspace was crammed with no less than five energon cubes (one of them home-brewed high grade), two tins of wax, three polishing cloths, several rounds of ammunition, and a datapad of Cybertronian poetry (from Brawn, surprisingly.)

"That was embarrassing," Trailbreaker said as Wheeljack lowered him gently to the berth.

"They're just grateful," he replied. "And they should be. You earned it."

"I didn't do it to impress them," Trailbreaker muttered, ducking his helm.

"They know that," he assured him as he coaxed Trailbreaker to lie back on the berth. "You saved us. Doesn't matter why. Only matters that you did."

With Trailbreaker settled, Wheeljack moved over to the workstation and began unpacking his subspace compartment. He was primarily interested in the energon; Trailbreaker needed to refuel badly. He stashed one cube in his subspace, then picked up a second and carried it over to Trailbreaker, sitting down on the edge of the berth.

"Aren't you having any?" Trailbreaker asked as Wheeljack helped him to sit up again.

"Maybe later," he said, lifting the cube to Trailbreaker's lip components. "You need it more than I do."

"Not as much as I used to…thanks to you," Trailbreaker replied, reaching up to rest a hand on his arm. The movement jostled the cube, causing some of the energon to spill onto Trailbreaker's chestplate.

"Sorry," they said almost simultaneously.

Trailbreaker laughed. "I guess I'm not very good at this whole hero thing," he said abashedly, raising a hand to wipe off the energon.

Wheeljack halted him with a hand, "Wait, let me –" he handed Trailbreaker the cube, got up, fetched one of the polishing cloths from the desk, and used it to wipe up the spill. Setting it aside, he retrieved the cube from Trailbreaker and suggested, "Why don't you, um…why don't you try leaning against me while I –"

"Right," Trailbreaker said, leaning forward to allow Wheeljack to slip in behind him and sit on the berth with his backstrut against the wall, then lying back against his chestplate while Wheeljack held the mostly-full energon cube safely off to one side.

"Yeah, like that," he said, trying to ignore the faint tingling sensation that crept through his circuitry in response to the feeling of Trailbreaker's warm chassis pressed against his chestplate, of his hip-plate nestled snugly between his parted thighs. The words came out a little husky – a result of the lingering damage his regenerative systems were still endeavoring to repair, probably.

Trailbreaker reached for his arm again as Wheeljack lifted the cube once more to his lip components. This time, none was spilled.

Trailbreaker drank long and deeply.

"Your force field is an incredible piece of engineering," he commented admiringly. "I didn't realize how powerful it was until I saw it in action after I'd actually tried to build one. The one _I_ put together only lasted five minutes, and nearly drained every erg of energy we had in the _Ark_, but _yours_–"

"Yeah," Trailbreaker said sheepishly.

"You were unbelievable today," he added quietly. "I knew you were strong, but I wouldn't have thought anyone could hold out so long in a situation like that."

Trailbreaker's circuits heated with embarrassment at his words– pressed this close to him, Wheeljack could feel the slight increase in his core temperature – and his grip on Wheeljack's arm tightened ever-so-slightly. He offered no response, instead taking several large gulps of energon, finishing the cube.

Wheeljack dispersed the empty container. "How do you feel?" he asked.

"Like I got run over by Blitzwing in tank mode," Trailbreaker replied. "I ache all over."

He made a sympathetic noise and rubbed Trailbreaker's upper arm comfortingly. "Probably residual sensory input from the repairs," he speculated. "I have another cube here, if you're ready for it."

"Not just yet," Trailbreaker said. After a moment's hesitation, he asked haltingly, "Would, uh…would you mind staying with me for a while? I know you're probably in a hurry to get me settled so you can go back to your quarters and recharge, but –"

"I never intended to leave," he said. "Unless you plan on kicking me out, I'm not going anywhere."

Trailbreaker shifted slightly, trying to turn to meet his optics. "Really?"

"Yeah," he said.

"But I thought…I mean, on the ship, you…"

"I'm sorry about that," he said, ducking his helm. He reached for the polishing cloth again and began rubbing Trailbreaker's chestplate with it gently, avoiding his optics. "I just…I know it's stupid, but I…I just _couldn't_. Not with everyone –"

"I understand," Trailbreaker said. "You'd been working so hard, trying to keep us all functional, even though you knew it was hopeless – I don't blame you for not feeling up to it."

"I'm still sorry," he said quietly. The spilled energon was long gone, but he persisted in his efforts with the cloth, buffing in slow, thoughtful circles. "I know you wanted to."

"I'm glad you said no," Trailbreaker said, reaching for his hand, halting its motion. "If you hadn't, we wouldn't be here now."

"Yeah," he said softly. "I guess we wouldn't."

"I like being here," Trailbreaker said with a smile, squeezing his hand gently. "I like knowing I'll have lots more time with you. That's way better than one last time."

Now his own circuits were heating with embarrassment, which he was sure Trailbreaker could feel just as he had. "Yeah," he said again. "Do, uh…do you still want the other cube?"

"That depends," Trailbreaker replied, a hint of teasing in his tone. "Will you share it with me?"

x.x.x.x.x

They'd split the energon.

They spent the next breem passing the cube back and forth between them, taking measured sips as they basked in the combined heat produced by their revitalized systems. By the time they'd finished, Trailbreaker's optics had begun to dim and flicker, his need for recharge showing its effects.

Wheeljack had suggested they adjust their positions on the berth to ones more conducive to recharge, and as a result Trailbreaker had ended up stretched out on this back with Wheeljack lying beside him, turned on his side and leaning lightly against him. As exhausted as he was, Trailbreaker was offline within astroseconds.

Wheeljack remained online for some time longer, staring down at him thoughtfully.

Trailbreaker had been so _brave_. The dauntless determination he'd displayed, the willingness to sacrifice himself to save his fellow Autobots…

Trailbreaker's act of selfless heroism was the sort of thing Wheeljack was accustomed to seeing from Optimus Prime, the sort of thing he himself had done on occasion, before Starscream had –

But it wasn't the sort of thing he'd expected _Trailbreaker_ to do. Not that he considered Trailbreaker a coward; far from it, but he'd never thought of him as exceptionally resourceful or heroic, either. To be honest, Wheeljack hadn't thought of him much at all. For a mech his size, Trailbreaker's shy, unassuming manner made him surprisingly easy to overlook.

Wheeljack reached out hesitantly, confirming with a quick, nervous glance that Trailbreaker was still in recharge, his expression remote and peaceful, before laying a tentative hand against the larger mech's chestplate.

The faint humming vibration of Trailbreaker's slumbering systems tickled the sensors lining his palm; beneath that, he could sense the slow, heavy pulse of Trailbreaker's spark. He offlined his optics, "listening" to that steady, ponderous rhythm.

The damage Trailbreaker had suffered had been severe in the extreme. Impressive as his considerable fortitude was, Trailbreaker had limits just like any mech, and today he'd very nearly exceeded them. How he'd endured for so long, Wheeljack couldn't begin to guess. A mere breem, perhaps a few kliks more, would have been all it took to extinguish Trailbreaker's spark forever. Wheeljack had known that, even as he fought to keep him online.

It had terrified him.

He'd known in the logical part of his processor that without Trailbreaker the rest of the Autobots, himself included, would soon follow, but that hadn't been what frightened him. What he'd feared most was the thought of _surviving_ – surviving when Trailbreaker hadn't.

Unlike the fear that had become an all-too-familiar berthfellow to him in the past decacycle, the cold fear that left him frozen and immobilized, unable to act, this fear had galvanized him, made him fight back all the harder, even when he knew he was fighting against the inevitable.

Trailbreaker's courage had helped him find his own.

Trailbreaker's modesty, on the other hand, baffled him. There was no question that Trailbreaker had _earned_ all the praise and admiration that had been offered to him, but Trailbreaker had seemed _embarrassed_ by it. Embarrassed by the perfectly understandable gratitude of those he'd saved.

Wheeljack was among them, for more reasons than one.

He wanted to tell Trailbreaker how grateful he was – it seemed wrong to be silent when gratitude was so obviously well-deserved – but how could he, when Trailbreaker was so clearly averse to such sentiments?

There might be a way he could _show_ his appreciation – he just needed to figure out _how_.

Wheeljack pondered that dilemma at length as he lay in the dark beside him, his helm resting against Trailbreaker's shoulder-strut, his hand pressed lightly against his chestplate. The familiar hum of Trailbreaker's powered-down systems was soothing, the rhythmic pulse of his spark against his hand soft and reassuring. Together they lulled his distracted and wearied processor into a state of calm.

He slipped into recharge, his question unanswered.

x.x.x.x.x

A loud, persistent banging roused him.

As Wheeljack onlined his optics and blearily raised his helm it began again, emanating from somewhere in the vicinity of the door. This time it was accompanied by raised, frantic voices.

"'Breaker! C'mon! Answer me!"

"Trailbreaker! Are you there?"

"He's not responding to my pings!"

"Keep knocking; I'll comm Ratchet."

Wheeljack struggled to his feet, extricating himself from Trailbreaker's lax embrace – Trailbreaker was still offline – and staggered over to the door. After a moment's fumbling he triggered the mechanism, and found himself staring into the wide, panicked optics of Hound and Mirage.

"Wheeljack," Hound said in surprise.

"Hey, Hound," he replied muzzily. "Mirage. What's wrong?"

The two mechs exchanged glances. "We were worried about Trailbreaker," Mirage explained. "Hound pinged him, but he wasn't responding."

"He's still in recharge," he said, casting a glance back at the dark slumbering form on the berth.

"Is he okay?" Hound asked worriedly.

"He's fine," Wheeljack said. "He was repaired and refueled last night, now all he needs is rest. Ratchet took him off active duty for a couple days."

Hound and Mirage exchanged another look. "We were stuck in repair bay for most of the night or we'd have come by sooner," Hound said guiltily. "You've been taking care of him?"

"Yeah," he replied. "I've been monitoring his spark; it's stable. He's just in a deep cycle; his systems need to recover from the energy drain. Sort of like forced recharge. That's why your pings didn't get through to him."

Hound's shoulder-struts sagged in obvious relief. "Thank Primus," he said. "And thank you, Wheeljack, for looking after him."

"No problem," he replied, vocal indicators flashing agreeably.

"We have to report for duty, Hound," Mirage interrupted gently. "We're going to be late."

Hound glanced at his lover. "Yeah, okay." He started to turn, but hesitated, looking back at Wheeljack. "You're sure 'Breaker's gonna be okay?"

"He'll be fine," he assured him. "I'm off duty today; I'll keep an optic on him."

Hound smiled. "Then he's in good hands. Thanks, Wheeljack."

"No problem," he said again. "I'll tell him you stopped by."

After an exchange of farewells, Hound and Mirage departed. Releasing the door, Wheeljack turned back to check on Trailbreaker, confirming once more that he was offline, his spark energy stable.

As he'd told Hound and Mirage, Trailbreaker was unlikely to come out of recharge until his energy levels were fully restored. Until then, very little in the way of external stimuli would be sufficient to bring him back online. Wheeljack estimated he'd be out for another joor or two, at least.

He fidgeted uneasily, feeling uncertain. He couldn't return to his quarters; Trailbreaker had wanted him to stay, and he'd promised Hound he'd look after him. He didn't feel right leaving him alone – what if something went wrong?

He didn't want to try to resume his recharge cycle; it had been close to completion, and re-initiating an interrupted cycle that had reached that stage tended to result in sensor echoes even among mechs that didn't normally experience them. Lying down again without the intent to recharge seemed frivolous.

He paced the length of Trailbreaker's quarters restlessly, pausing to peer at the various plants that decorated the room. Wheeljack knew very little about Earth flora, but they appeared healthy and well cared for. He let them be.

He glanced briefly at the datapad Brawn had sheepishly handed over while muttering that he hoped Trailbreaker felt better soon, but poetry had never really been Wheeljack's thing. After scanning a few lines, he set it down again and moved on.

He wasn't about to go pawing through Trailbreaker's personal possessions in search of a diversion, but he needed to find _something_ to do. He circled the room again, noticing an image capture of Trailbreaker and Hound posed smiling, arm-in-arm, in front of a backdrop of rushing water – he thought it might be Sherman Dam – on a shelf he'd overlooked in his earlier circuit. He spent a moment studying it, then turned away again.

At a loss, he finally decided to open what he deemed to be the most innocuous drawer in Trailbreaker's quarters, the one at the center of the workstation. Inside he discovered a small assortment of impersonal, occasionally useful but otherwise wholly uninteresting items. He closed it again, venting a sigh.

Slumping into the chair, he leaned back and stared up at the ceiling. A klik later, he glanced over at Trailbreaker again, wishing he'd come online and talk to him. These days, Wheeljack didn't particularly enjoy being alone with his thoughts.

After a few more kliks of pointless fidgeting, he got to his feet and crept hesitantly back into the berth, settling himself once more alongside the recharging mech. After a moment's deliberation, he reached for Trailbreaker's slack arm and draped it across his chestplate.

That accomplished, he offlined his optics and powered down his systems, waiting for Trailbreaker to rise.

x.x.x.x.x

He was pulled from standby mode about a joor later by a comm…from Gears.

_*What's up?*_ he asked hesitantly. Gears was always complaining about one minor maintenance issue or another, and was the bane of every repair 'Bot on the Ark.

_*The human wants me to ask if you can drive him to the airport.*_ Gears said grudgingly.

_The human? *Which human?*_ he asked.

_*…we've got nothing better to do than cart them around; think we're at their beck and call,*_ Gears was muttering. _*The old one with the yellow helm,*_ he replied. He paused for an astrosecond, evidently listening to something. _*He says he has to go to a funeral…old army buddy,*_ Gears recited, clearly being prompted.

_Sparkplug?_ He glanced at Trailbreaker. _*I can't,*_ he commed back. _*I'm busy.*_

_*Well don't expect _me_ to do it,*_ Gears grumbled back peevishly. _*My engine's been making this knocky-pingy noise…*_

Wheeljack pondered a moment, tuning out Gears' continuing litany of minor ailments. Hound would gladly have given Sparkplug a lift, as would Trailbreaker – but Hound was on duty, Trailbreaker still offline. Bumblebee must not have been available either; Sparkplug would have asked him already. _*Tell him to ask Jazz. Or Ironhide,*_ he suggested.

_*Fine,*_ Gears said, managing to sound vastly put-upon. _*I'll tell him.*_

_*Wheeljack out.*_ he said, closing the link before Gears could start complaining again.

He hoped Sparkplug would be able to find a 'Bot who was willing to give him a ride. He felt guilty for being unable to do it himself – although he knew Sparkplug would understand – but he was also relieved he'd had an excuse to refuse. His last conversation with Sparkplug had begun to tread on some rather uncomfortable ground, and only the untimely arrival of Berger's tanks had prevented it from continuing. Afforded an opportunity like a long, quiet drive, Wheeljack was certain his human friend would attempt to rectify that oversight.

He shuddered at the thought of what _that_ conversation would be like.

Thanks to Gears' interruption, he was back online again – and Trailbreaker still wasn't. Venting a sigh of resignation, he rose from the berth once more.

He felt bad for Sparkplug, having to resort to asking _Gears_ to comm him. Humans outside the _Ark_ could communicate with the Autobots using their own technology via Teletraan-1, but internally they had no means of contacting individual mechs. All the spare external comms the 'Bots had on hand were too large for a human to use.

The thought sparked an idea in his CPU that sent him rummaging through his subspace. A basic two-way communicator was a simple device to construct; he could build one out of little more than spare parts. But to make one small enough for a _human_ to use…

The inspiration proved to be such an effective diversion that Wheeljack didn't even notice Trailbreaker had completed his recharge cycle until he spoke.

"You're still here," Trailbreaker said in surprise.

Wheeljack looked up, startled. He'd been so absorbed in his newest project, he'd forgotten where he was. He realized with chagrin that at some point he'd pulled out the drawer he'd checked earlier to fetch a few components he needed, completely forgetting it wasn't his own, and had left it hanging open. He glanced from it to Trailbreaker, and sheepishly slid it shut again. "Yeah," he said.

"What are you working on?" Trailbreaker asked, sitting up. "A new invention?"

"Uh, yeah," he said. "A miniature two-way communicator for the humans to use. In case they need to contact one of us directly instead of through Teletraan."

Trailbreaker came over to have a look, resting a hand on the back of his chair as he bent over him, trying to catch a better glimpse of the miniscule device. The prototype Wheeljack had been tinkering with was so tiny he'd had to magnify his optics almost to maximum just to _see_ it. Doubtless Trailbreaker was now doing the same.

"It's so _small_," Trailbreaker said. "It must have been hard to make."

"Not really," he said. "External comms are easy. The size made it a little tricky, but, uh…" he trailed off, distracted by how _close_ Trailbreaker was. He glanced away nervously, his gaze falling on the drawer again. "I, uh…I sort of borrowed a few of your things to make it," he said apologetically.

"That's okay," Trailbreaker said, straightening."You can use my stuff if you need to."

"I'll try not to make a habit of it," he said, feeling relieved. "Or of, you know, going through your drawers."

"I don't care about that," Trailbreaker replied with a laugh. "It's not like I've got anything to hide."

Wheeljack suppressed a flinch at that. He had a great deal to hide. Not in his drawers of course, but the secret _he_ was concealing was far more shameful than some mildly-embarrassing trinket.

"Hound and Mirage stopped by while you were offline," he said, hoping to change the subject.

"They did?" Trailbreaker said, grinning delightedly. "Really?"

"Yeah, said were stuck in repair bay all night or they would have come sooner. Came by on their way to their duty shift," he said. "They were worried about you, wanted to make sure you were okay. I told them you were fine."

"I'll have to comm Hound later," Trailbreaker said musingly. "I didn't even think about letting him know I was all right. He must be a wreck."

"He did seem worried," Wheeljack agreed. "But he calmed down after I told him I'd be keeping an optic on you."

"You will?" Trailbreaker asked. He sounded surprised and…touched.

"Sure," he replied. "I'm off duty today, and there's nowhere else I need to be. Unless you don't want me to?"

"No, I'd like that," Trailbreaker said with a smile. "And since I'm excused from my duty shift, I guess that means we get to spend the day together."

The way Trailbreaker's faceplate lit up at his offer supplied Wheeljack with the ideal solution to his earlier dilemma: If spending the day with him would make Trailbreaker happy, that would be the perfect way for Wheeljack to demonstrate his gratitude. "What do you feel like doing on your day off?" he asked, vocal indicators flashing brightly.

Trailbreaker glanced around, taking in the relatively cramped confines of his quarters. "I'd like to get outta _here_. I hate being cooped up indoors. How about a drive?"

"You think you're up to that?" he asked. "You're supposed to be recuperating, remember."

"We could make it a nice leisurely drive," Trailbreaker countered with a grin.

Tucking the prototype mini-comm carefully into his subspace, Wheeljack got to his feet. "Works for me."

x.x.x.x.x

They ended up in the place where it had all began.

They departed from Trailbreaker's quarters, heading straight for the main exit. Wheeljack had suggested Trailbreaker grab the two remaining cubes of energon from the night before in case they needed to refuel later – it was easier than fighting the morning crowd in the common room – and once outside, they transformed and hit the pavement.

For a while they drove aimlessly, enjoying the simple freedom. They kept to a relaxed pace to avoid overtaxing Trailbreaker's recovering systems, chatting idly over their comms. Sometimes Wheeljack took the lead, sometimes Trailbreaker did, each choosing their course at random, heading down whichever road looked most appealing.

Maybe Trailbreaker had been headed that way all along – Wheeljack wasn't sure – but when he abruptly pulled off the road, Wheeljack followed, and immediately recognized their surroundings.

The view was still spectacular.

It had changed a little since their last visit; in the intervening days the fields and pastures had turned from green to gold, and the leaves on some of the trees below the timber line now sported bright splashes of color – reds, yellows, purples and oranges – amongst the predominant green.

"Wow," he said as he transformed and moved to stand alongside Trailbreaker, gazing out over the vista.

"Now that's what I call an inspiring view," Trailbreaker said appreciatively.

Wheeljack glanced over at him to offer a reply, and promptly forgot what he'd been about to say.

Trailbreaker wasn't admiring the scenery. He was looking at _him_, his optics lit with desire.

Wheeljack lowered his gaze, feeling flustered. He could feel Trailbreaker's glowing optics moving over his frame, igniting a path of tingling warmth that shivered through his circuitry, nudging his core temperature upward several degrees.

It made the puff of cool air Trailbreaker blew across his sensor-winglets feel all the more intense.

Trailbreaker's arms slid around his waist components, embracing him from behind, and Wheeljack found himself arching into his touch, pressing back against Trailbreaker's chestplate.

Trailbreaker leaned in close, mouthing his neck cables as his hands wandered over Wheeljack's hip plate. Wheeljack's intakes hitched and caught at the unfamiliar sensation – Trailbreaker was stimulating his sensor net with his _mouth_? – but he didn't protest the odd activity.

It felt too good.

Meanwhile, Trailbreaker's fingers had sought out the transformation seams along his sides, lavishing them with ardent attention. An astrosecond later they dipped low to tug the cables within the gaps at his hips, pulling a startled moan from Wheeljack's vocalizer as his core temperature spiked.

He grabbed one of Trailbreaker's hands before it could drift away again, leaning into the touch, urging those wonderful fingers to probe deeper. Reaching up blindly with the other hand, he groped for whatever part of Trailbreaker happened to be within reach, wanting to touch him in return. His fingers brushed against smooth metal – a distant part of his processor identified it as Trailbreaker's communications array – and closed around it, stroking upward along its length.

Trailbreaker groaned, rumbling Wheeljack's name in tones so deep they were more felt than heard, vibrating exquisitely against his neck cables. Trailbreaker's hand on his hip plate gripped tighter as the other roved over his chestplate, rubbing and pinching along the seam of his windshield.

A faint whimper escaped his vocalizer in response to the onslaught of varied sensations. Trailbreaker hadn't even employed his energy field, but Wheeljack was already edging embarrassingly close to overload. His internal cooling fans switched on in a last-ditch attempt to counter his skyrocketing core temperature, and his grip on Trailbreaker's communications array tightened.

Desperate to do his part before he humiliated himself by finishing before his partner, Wheeljack released Trailbreaker's hand, trusting him to continue his attentions at his hip, and attempted to reach back and between them in order to get a hand underneath Trailbreaker's bumper. It was awkward, but after a little twisting and maneuvering – which caused his backstrut to scrape against Trailbreaker's plating in an all-too-pleasant manner – he managed it, and was rewarded with an even deeper groan that vibrated all the way to his core. The enthusiastic revving of an overheated engine welcomed his touch as his fingers seized upon their prize, grasping and stroking.

Unfortunately the effort ultimately backfired; Trailbreaker responded by pulling him even tighter into his embrace, pressing his vibrating engine block hard against Wheeljack's highly-sensitized fingertips, searing them with its heat, and bringing his thrumming chestplate into direct contact with the most heavily sensor-laden region of Wheeljack's back – his sensor-winglets.

With an inarticulate cry of ecstasy, he tumbled over the brink.

He was relieved to feel Trailbreaker tense and shudder against him as he stiffened in his arms – at least he'd managed to pull Trailbreaker over the edge along with him – and mildly mortified at the way his final shout of pleasure echoed down the mountainside, announcing his overload to the world _ad infinitum_ as he trembled in the fading throes of erotic bliss, but as his flickering optics took in the breathtaking panoply of their adopted planet laid out before him, only one thought passed through his processor:

_It's beautiful._

He sagged in Trailbreaker's arms, weakened and overwhelmed by sensations and emotions too numerous to name, gasping through his intakes, and they sank to the ground together, their heated frames still intertwined.

"Wow," Trailbreaker panted, echoing his earlier sentiment.

Too overcome to activate his vocalizer, Wheeljack merely nodded.

A lingering sense of guilt tugged at him. Trailbreaker was supposed to be recuperating. Even restricting himself from the use of energy fields, an overload would drain precious energy from his weakened systems. When Wheeljack finally recovered enough to speak, the first words to emerge from his vocalizer were, "We should refuel. You're still not at a hundred percent."

"Whatever you say, doc," Trailbreaker chuckled indulgently, drawing back enough to access his subspace compartment while still remaining comfortingly close and producing the pair of cubes they'd brought along with them. He handed one to Wheeljack with an affectionate smile.

They drank their energon quietly, silent save for the sounds of their internal fans cycling down and their overheated engines cooling, but within Wheeljack's CPU, a thousand thoughts clamored for his attention.

Perhaps he'd been wrong when he'd concluded his relationship with Trailbreaker was nothing more than a sham. He genuinely _liked_ Trailbreaker, respected him, enjoyed his company. He even found him _attractive_, he realized, taking in the broad, solid contours of Trailbreaker's frame, admiring the way the polished black metal gleamed in the autumn sunlight.

Trailbreaker was strong, selfless and brave. He was fun-loving and easygoing. He was –

He was _trustworthy_.

An uncertain shiver of warmth stirred in his spark, made it pulse and throb in a strange, unfamiliar way.

A wry chuckle from Trailbreaker pulled him from his thoughts. He looked up at him quizzically. "What?"

"You're covered in scorch marks," Trailbreaker said.

He glanced down at himself in surprise, and discovered it was true – several sections of his chassis were blackened and singed where his overheated circuits had flared up and burned during their close encounter with the Earth's sun, marring the normally pristine white. He felt an inexplicable flare of embarrassment – he'd never been a vain mech, and he'd been busy attending to matters far more important than his own appearance, but even so…

"So are you," he retorted. He couldn't actually see any – Trailbreaker's black and red paintjob did a far better job of concealing them than his own lighter scheme – but he knew for a fact Trailbreaker hadn't spent any more time primping than he had.

"Yeah, but I can get away with it," Trailbreaker teased. "Black goes with everything."

"I'll take care of it later," he muttered sheepishly.

"Why not do it now?" Trailbreaker asked playfully. "I'll help you."

He looked up and saw that Trailbreaker was holding up a pair of polishing cloths and one of the tins of wax Wheeljack had left lying on the workstation next to the energon cubes. That, along with Trailbreaker's suggestive tone, left Wheeljack with the distinct impression that he'd planned this all along.

"I think that might qualify as strenuous activity," he said wryly.

Trailbreaker laughed, regarding him with an expression that was decidedly cheeky. "Polishing's not strenuous," he said teasingly. "It's _relaxing_."

He activated his vocalizer, intending to reply that he suspected Trailbreaker had a little more in mind than mere polishing, but the words never came. The thought of Trailbreaker's hands moving over his frame, gently rubbing away the impurities, sent a flush of heat through his systems. "Okay," he said.

x.x.x.x.x

The mutual polishing session had indeed been relaxing…at least right up until the last of the scorch marks had been carefully buffed away, and every last inch of their armor rendered bright and gleaming. After that, the encounter took an undeniably _sensual_ turn, their cloths moving on to more intimate areas – areas for which polish had never been intended.

"You're so _good_ at this," Trailbreaker groaned, arching up into Wheeljack's hands, his own moving more insistently over Wheeljack's chassis.

"So are you," he moaned back, venting heavily through his intakes in an effort to keep his cooling fans from activating. Abandoning the cloth – its soft texture had both teased and muffled the sensors in his hands in a delightfully aggravating way, but now he wanted _more_ – he began tracing the contours of Trailbreaker's chestplate directly, pressing harder when Trailbreaker rumbled with pleasure and leaned into his touch, shuddering in response to the heat and sensation against his sensor-laden palms.

Dropping his own cloth, Trailbreaker reached for him again, running his hands up Wheeljack's thigh-plates, once more seeking out the hot spot at his hips. An astrosecond later, he extended his energy field like an afterthought.

Wheeljack's intakes hitched as he felt Trailbreaker's field envelop him, sparking internal sensors their hands could never reach, igniting them with pleasure. It occurred to him that Trailbreaker shouldn't be exerting himself like this so soon, but in the time it took him to think it, he'd already synched Trailbreaker's field with his own.

"Ratchet – probably wouldn't approve – of how we're spending my recovery time," Trailbreaker panted, with a laugh that turned into a pleasured gasp as Wheeljack sent another pulse through his field.

Wheeljack hesitated. There was a _lot_ about this situation Ratchet wouldn't approve of, of that he was certain. "Ratchet doesn't know everything," he said.

Trailbreaker barked a laugh, but then the amused expression left his faceplate, replaced by one dark and smoldering. Glowing optics raked over Wheeljack's polished chassis, all but devouring him with his gaze, his energy field throbbing hungrily against him. "You're so _shiny_," he rumbled. "You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

Wheeljack couldn't hold back the moan that slipped from his vocalizer at the words, at the pleasure surging through his circuitry with every pulse of Trailbreaker's energy field. He didn't resist when Trailbreaker leaned into him, pushing him bodily to the ground, pinning Wheeljack beneath him.

"I'm gonna get you all dirty again," Trailbreaker growled huskily, his tone half apology, half promise.

The words lit a fire in Wheeljack's spark, made it swell and throb, made his circuits burn with hot, aching need. "Then you'll just – have to polish me again," he panted, the last word becoming a moan as he arched beneath him, sending a flurry of fevered pulses through his energy field as their plating scraped and sang.

A near-subsonic rumble of eagerness and a rapid fusillade of field energy was Trailbreaker's only reply.

The sensual assault bowed Wheeljack's backstruts, made him clutch at the coarse gravelly soil in a desperate attempt to find something, _anything_ to hang on to just to keep from flying apart. The sharp stones dug into his palms, setting off another round of confused sensory input, _pain-pleasure-pain_, and his energy field flared wildly, no longer subject to his control.

Then suddenly Trailbreaker was grabbing his hands, pulling them free of the soil and gripping them tightly in his own, his energy field pounding into Wheeljack relentlessly as he pressed the palm of Wheeljack's left hand to his lip components and _hummed_ while vigorously squeezing and stroking the right.

Wheeljack _shrieked_ in response, his frame arching clear off the ground, servos whining from the strain, his engine screaming, his systems abruptly shooting into the red in explosive, circuit-frying overload. His vocal indicators flashed hectically as he babbled incoherent pleas for mercy and for more, until his vocalizer finally gave out, producing only static, and he slumped back to earth, twitching.

x.x.x.x.x

His systems rebooted quickly, but he still had to refresh his flickering optics several times before he could focus them again. He looked up to find Trailbreaker gazing down at him with open adoration, and for a klik Wheeljack could only stare back at him in silent, humbled awe.

He'd never overloaded so hard in the entire sum of his existence.

"You looked like you enjoyed that," Trailbreaker said with a grin.

He was speechless and shaken, but rapidly recovering. "Yeah," he said, finally finding his vocalizer. "…_wow_."

"I never made anyone offline before," Trailbreaker said with a tinge of pride. "Does that happen to you a lot?"

He shook his helm. "First time."

Trailbreaker positively _beamed_ at that, his engine giving a short rev. The sound caught Wheeljack's attention, compelling him to assess his partner's status. To his dismay, he discovered that Trailbreaker's temperature levels were still elevated, a heavy charge still hovering around him.

"You didn't overload," he said.

Trailbreaker looked embarrassed. "Yeah, wasn't quite there yet when you went off," he confessed. Registering the horrified look in Wheeljack's optics, he added hastily, "It wasn't you; I held back on purpose. Didn't want Ratchet yelling at me."

"Frag Ratchet," he snapped without thinking. "The only reason he said that was because –" he cut himself off abruptly as his processor caught up with his vocalizer, guiltily averting his gaze.

"Because..?" Trailbreaker inquired.

Wheeljack didn't need to look at him to know Trailbreaker was frowning – he could hear it in his voice. After a moment he admitted, "Because you're with me. He's…still mad at me."

"Oh," Trailbreaker said, nonplussed. "So it would have been okay for me to overload again?"

"Yeah," he said, feeling wretched. He'd intended for this outing to be a way for him to show Trailbreaker how grateful he was, and instead he'd stacked up even more debt to him. Trailbreaker had completely blown his processor, and hadn't even gotten an overload for his trouble.

It was patently unfair – no, it was _unacceptable_.

Without warning, he reached up and took hold of Trailbreaker's shoulder-struts, rolling them over and pinning the larger mech beneath him. The sudden movement was a little too much for his freshly-overloaded CPU, and for an astrosecond he reeled as the world spun around him.

"Wheeljack?" Trailbreaker said in obvious surprise. "What are you doing?"

"You're getting that overload," he said firmly.

Trailbreaker still looked slightly startled, but his engine gave a hesitant rev.

Wheeljack plunged his energy field into him like a blade.

x.x.x.x.x

He gave Trailbreaker everything he had.

He explored Trailbreaker's chassis with exacting thoroughness, exploiting every hot spot he'd mapped out in his medical file, using every trick he knew, plus a few he'd made up on the spot. He touched. He stroked. He fondled. He groped. He reduced Trailbreaker to a whimpering puddle of ecstasy, and when Trailbreaker reached for him, trying to reciprocate, Wheeljack pushed his hands away, held them down, and extended his energy field again, teasing Trailbreaker until he quivered on the razor's edge of release, writhing beneath him, alternately pleading and calling out his name.

His own systems had heated up again at the renewed activity, his cooling fans springing to life once more, but Wheeljack remained in control, focused and determined. He _owed_ Trailbreaker this. Trailbreaker _deserved_ this.

He was reaching for Trailbreaker's chestplate, intent on giving him that final _push_ that would send Trailbreaker clear to the moon and back, when Trailbreaker caught hold of his hand, preventing him.

Panting and shuddering beneath him, Trailbreaker raised his other hand and pressed it against Wheeljack's chestplate, just above his spark. "Link with me," he whispered ardently, "I want to feel you – _really_ feel you. Link with me."

The words hit him like a blast of liquid nitrogen, engulfing him in bitter, biting cold. The energon in his lines froze, his core temperature plummeting like a stone, his internal fans stuttering to an abrupt, coughing halt.

_No,_ he thought desperately, utterly stricken. _Not that. Don't ask me for that._

But it was too late. The words had been spoken, the request given voice.

Trailbreaker felt him tense, felt him go utterly _still_ above him, and his expression shifted rapidly from one of adoration and desire to one of confusion and concern. "Wheeljack?" he inquired uncertainly. "What's wrong?"

Wheeljack shuddered, staring at him with unseeing optics. Trailbreaker's request and his own lingering arousal had triggered a cascade of memory files within his CPU, flooding his cache with a torrent of images and sensations drawn forth and recollected in all-too-vivid clarity.

_Starscream, touching him. Plugging into him, _invading_ him. Laughing at his weakness, gloating over his victory. Ratchet, gazing at him with humiliatingly pitying optics. speaking in that gentle, patronizing tone, and doing the exact same thing. Both of them haunting his recharge, forcing him to relive their violations again and again, night after night, over and over…_

He pulled free of Trailbreaker's unresisting arms, sitting up.

"What is it?" Trailbreaker asked, sounding distressed and bewildered. "What's wrong? What'd I do? What'd I say?"

"I don't uplink," he said flatly, glaring out over the vista. It didn't seem quite so beautiful, now.

"Oh," Trailbreaker said reproachfully. "I thought – I thought you'd _want_ to, that you felt the same –"

His hands were trembling again. He wrapped his arms tightly around his chassis, huddling in on himself to hide them from sight, and suppressed a shudder.

"I-is it me? Is it…because it's me?" Trailbreaker asked in a tone akin to dread.

"I don't uplink with anyone," he clarified. "Ever."

"Oh," Trailbreaker said again, unable to hide the hurt and disappointment in his tone. He was silent for several kliks, digesting Wheeljack's statement. "You _never_ uplink?" he asked incredulously. "Not _ever?_"

Wheeljack flinched inwardly. While evidently not wont to pry, Trailbreaker obviously favored the direct approach. He shook his helm, wary of speaking aloud, worried he might reveal too much by his tone.

Trailbreaker asked, "Is it, um…" he trailed off, looking embarrassed, then continued, "I mean, you've – you've _tried_ it, right?"

His own circuits heated a little as he realized what Trailbreaker was getting at. He debated claiming he hadn't, if only to put the issue off for a while, but quickly discarded the notion. The thought of telling such a blatant lie galled him, and he figured if he did Trailbreaker would make an enthusiastic effort to sell him on the idea, anyway. "Yeah," he said.

"So why don't you–?"

"I don't like it," he interrupted curtly, anticipating the question. That, at least, was emphatically true.

"Oh." Trailbreaker said, seeming genuinely puzzled. Most Cybertronians, after all, _did_ like it.

"It's not much fun for the other mech, either," he volunteered reluctantly, recalling how he'd reacted to Ratchet's scan, and Ratchet's response. "'Cause I don't –"

"You don't like it," Trailbreaker concluded for him. "And they can feel it."

"Yeah," he said quietly.

"Why don't you like it?"

"Because I…" He considered just admitting the truth, but he couldn't force himself to say it. His newfound respect for Trailbreaker only made it harder. He imagined Trailbreaker looking at him with disgust, or worse, with _pity_, the way Ratchet did, and felt his spark clench in revulsion. _He can_ _never know_, he thought firmly. But he didn't want to lie. "I just _don't_," he said finally.

"Oh," Trailbreaker said, lowering his gaze and looking pensive again.

Wheeljack felt a sudden surge of irritation. Why was Trailbreaker making such a big deal out of this? It wasn't as if you couldn't overload _without_ uplinking, for Primus' sake. He was interfacing with Trailbreaker whenever he wanted, wasn't that enough?

For an astrosecond he was tempted to just walk away, to tell Trailbreaker he could to go to the Pit if he expected Wheeljack to uplink with him and be done with it. He could put this whole mess behind him, and thank Primus he'd found such a quick and easy way out of it.

Then he thought about going back to his quarters alone that night and trying to recharge. The echoes would be worse than ever with the memory files so recently refreshed.

"Does this mean – if I won't, are we –?" he asked reluctantly, steeling himself for the response he expected, knowing he probably sounded bitter and resigned, but unable to do anything about it. "Is it over?"

Trailbreaker looked up in surprise, meeting his gaze. "Do you want it to be?" he asked.

Wheeljack shook his helm. "No."

Trailbreaker studied him for a long, silent moment, searching Wheeljack's optics and what little he could see of his expression for…something. Wheeljack held his gaze, fighting to remain calm and not fidget. He wasn't afraid. He _wasn't_.

"Neither do I," Trailbreaker said finally.

x.x.x.x.x

They drove back to the Ark in silence.

A part of him couldn't help but feel bitterly disappointed. The day had started out as one of most pleasant and enjoyable days he'd spent in vorns, had generated memory files he might have treasured for a lifetime, and then –

Then Trailbreaker had gone and ruined it.

He fought down a twinge of resentment at the thought. Trailbreaker's request hadn't been unreasonable, at least not by the standards of most mechs. Wheeljack was the one with an unusual stance on the subject, and how could Trailbreaker have known that without asking? To be fair, he couldn't have. But he still couldn't help but resent Trailbreaker a little, for asking for more than Wheeljack was willing to give.

He also felt guilty. He'd promised Trailbreaker an overload, and then failed to provide one. The mere mention of an uplink had killed his desire. But that meant Trailbreaker had been twice denied – three times, if you counted their initial interface – and that wasn't fair.

He'd have to make it up to him.

After they got back to the Ark, they stopped in the common room to retrieve their rations of energon and then headed on to Trailbreaker's quarters. Trailbreaker seemed mildly surprised when Wheeljack made it clear he intended to accompany him, but offered no objection.

When Trailbreaker keyed in the locking code and opened the door, Wheeljack stepped inside without hesitation. Trailbreaker followed, moving past him to lower himself gingerly to the berth. His movements suggested a lingering pain he'd somehow managed to conceal over the course of the day, and Wheeljack felt a renewed surge of guilt at the sight.

"I guess I didn't do a very good job of looking after you," he commented. There was a small clump of sod wedged in a transformation seam where Trailbreaker's shoulder met his chassis. Sitting down on the berth beside him, Wheeljack carefully plucked it out. "Maybe we should have gone to the washracks, too."

Trailbreaker shook his helm, "Too tired. Maybe tomorrow."

"Do you want to refuel before you recharge?" he asked.

Trailbreaker shook his helm, "No."

He'd expected Trailbreaker to lie down and initiate his cycle immediately, but instead Trailbreaker just looked at him. Maybe he was waiting for Wheeljack to lie down first?

Feeling vaguely uncomfortable, he did just that, lying back on the berth. After a moment's hesitation, Trailbreaker did the same, stretching out beside him.

The silence was tense and awkward.

"It was nice today," he ventured, staring up at the ceiling. "I had fun."

There was a brief pause, a soft shifting of metal as Trailbreaker turned to his side to look at him. "Me too."

"I can't believe I actually offlined," he said. "That was intense."

"You looked amazing," Trailbreaker said.

"I felt pretty amazing," he replied wryly, flattered and a little embarrassed by the compliment. His circuits were starting to tingle again just from the memory. He laughed nervously, his vocal indicators flickering. "_You_ were amazing."

Trailbreaker reached for him, laying a tentative hand on his abdominal plating. "We'll have to do it again sometime," he said with a smile.

The touch reminded him that Trailbreaker hadn't overloaded a second time, that he still owed him one. He turned his helm to look him in the optics, recalling all they had done that day. Slowly, uncertain of his welcome, he raised a hand to Trailbreaker's faceplate, brushing his fingertips lightly across his lip components. They were warm.

"What was that thing you did with your mouth?" he asked.

Trailbreaker ducked his helm in embarrassment, pulling away from his hand. "I learned it from Hound," he said abashedly. "He got it from the humans, I think. He said they like to do things with their mouths."

"Huh," he said. He knew that humans liked to press their lips together; he'd seen them do it on TV. Sparkplug had explained that it was a way of expressing affection. Since they'd crash-landed on Earth, many of the Autobots had adopted various human gestures and expressions, himself included, but he couldn't help wondering how the humans would react if they learned some of the 'Bots were using one of their gestures of affection for _interfacing_.

"Did you like it?" Trailbreaker asked, interrupting his musings.

"Yeah," he said. "It was kind of strange, but it felt good."

"That's what I thought, too," Trailbreaker said. "I'm not sure I did it right, though," he admitted. "Hound mostly did it to me."

He shifted slightly, trying to find a more comfortable position on the berth. The movement caused their plating to scrape together lightly. "Seemed okay to me," he said.

Trailbreaker's lip components quirked in a grin. "Maybe I just need more practice."

Wheeljack looked up and found Trailbreaker gazing down at him fondly. Their optics met and held, and for a few kliks they simply regarded each other in silence.

The air in the room was still charged with tension, but it was no longer awkward.

"How do you feel about being a guinea-pigatron?" Trailbreaker asked, the faint glow of his optics and trace of huskiness in his vocalizer belying his playful tone.

"For science?" he asked, his own voice barely more than a whisper.

"Yeah," Trailbreaker said with a chuckle. "For science."

"Anything for science," he replied, vocal indicators barely flickering.

Trailbreaker leaned over him. Wheeljack tilted his helm in invitation, granting him full access.

Trailbreaker's lip components scraped across his neck cables, stimulating his external sensors with a delicious friction, unfamiliar yet enticing. The sensation of Trailbreaker's mouth moving against the smooth metal sent a flush of heat sizzling through his circuitry, made him shudder in reaction.

Wheeljack reached for him, his fingers fumbling against Trailbreaker's chestplate, finding and gripping the edges, his legs drawing up to wrap around Trailbreaker's waist components, clinging to him.

Trailbreaker's arms wound around him in return, his engine revving as his lip components settled over a single sensor node. Wheeljack heard him cycle air through his intakes, creating a small vacuum, and the resulting sensation of suction made Wheeljack gasp and jerk in his embrace.

Trailbreaker broke away abruptly and sat up, grinning down at him, his optics lit with desire. "Nice?"

Wheeljack cycled a shaky draught of air through his vents. "Yeah," he said.

The tension in the air had cleared. Wheeljack felt his servos relaxing, his hydraulics depressurizing. Trailbreaker wasn't angered by his rejection, wasn't pressuring him to uplink. _It's going to be okay,_ he thought. Trailbreaker may have wanted to uplink with him, but he hadn't just –

Trailbreaker had _asked_.

_Trailbreaker's not Ratchet_, he reassured himself. _He wouldn't –_

Trailbreaker chose that moment to slide a hand tenderly over his chestplate, slow and affectionate. Without really meaning to, Wheeljack tensed.

The hand halted just over his insignia. "What's wrong?" Trailbreaker asked.

He hesitated a moment before replying, "I…do we have to? I mean, right now?"

Trailbreaker frowned. "You don't want to?"

"I feel bad about it," he replied, shrugging guiltily. "I mean…you're supposed to be recuperating."

"Oh," Trailbreaker said. "You're worried about me?" he asked, sounding curiously pleased.

Wheeljack looked up at him, meeting his gaze. Trailbreaker's optics were flickering intermittently, an indication of lack of recharge. "Yeah," he said. "But I feel bad about saying no, too. Because you didn't –"

Trailbreaker smiled and settled back down next to him, his arms slipping around Wheeljack's waist components, resting his helm against his shoulder-strut. "That's okay," he said. "There's always tomorrow."

"I'm on duty tomorrow," he said. "I won't have time in the morning."

"Don't worry about it," Trailbreaker said. "I don't mind."

_It's going to be okay_, he thought again, relaxing once more into Trailbreaker's embrace.

Trailbreaker was _trustworthy_.


	24. Adversity

**Title: **After Atlantis  
**Obligatory Disclaimer:** I don't own Transformers. This chapter contains references to and quotes dialogue from part one of the two-part G1 cartoon episode_ "Desertion of the Dinobots."_  
**Warnings: **PTSD angst, references to rape, references to sex, and a disturbing dream sequence.  
**Author's Note: **I'm so sorry! I am deeply ashamed of how long it took to post this chapter. I apologize for the delay – I was waylaid by a ravenous Seekersmut plotbunny* which 16K words later is _still_ not entirely placated. This chapter ended up being ridiculously long, so rather than making everyone wait even longer, I decided to break it into two. No smut in this one (I'm all smutted out) but after the last chapter that's probably a good thing. I hope it was worth the wait! Chapter 25 will be up soon.  
*Links to the resulting trilogy of fics can be found in my profile. Warnings for non-con and explicit sexual content.

**Chapter 24: Adversity**

_He couldn't move._

_It was dark. He couldn't move, but somehow he could see. He saw the hands that reached for him, blue hands, groping at his frame, their touch unwanted and unwelcome. They pawed at his chestplate, triggering the latches, exposing him. He begged soundlessly. Please don't. _

_His silent pleas were met with laughter, high and mocking, dripping with disdain._

_Then the blue hands were red hands, and their touch felt safe and familiar, but they were holding him down, they were pinning him, and that was no better._

_Twin shadows loomed over him, dark figures he couldn't discern. A pair of thin cables slithered out of the gloom, wrapping around his wrists, snaking up his arms, twining around him in a repellent embrace, their jacks glittering in the not-light. He struggled, and the hands returned, blue and red, holding him in place._

_The darkness was abruptly pierced by a crimson glow, illuminating a swarthy, smirking faceplate. A blue hand held up a cable, its movements slow and sinister. You're going to enjoy this._

_He felt the jack enter his port, felt it click home, the sound of the connection like a thunderclap in his muffled audials. He looked up, and saw Ratchet gazing down at him, his expression cold and remote._

_Help me, he pleaded wordlessly._

_Ratchet reached for him – but there was a cable in his hand, and it too snapped impossibly into place, overlapping the first._

_He recoiled in horror. Ratchet, no. Please. I can't move. Please help me._

_Interesting reaction, Ratchet said without speaking. How did that make you feel?_

He onlined with a jerk, his spark pulsing wildly, optics frantically scanning his surroundings, half-expecting to see Ratchet standing over him, or maybe Starscream, as the last of the lingering echoes chased through his processor. The dark, offline form of Trailbreaker lay beside him, his arms wound loosely around Wheeljack's waist components, silent and unmoving. Wheeljack huddled into his embrace, into that solid, reassuring warmth, trembling in fear.

"Calm down," he whispered to himself. "Calm down, calm down, it's okay. You're fine, everything's fine. It wasn't like that. It wasn't real."

He managed to collect himself after a few astroseconds, managed to shake off the haunting images and reassert his grip on reality. He checked his internal chronometer; his duty shift would begin in roughly three-quarters of a joor. If he got up now, he'd have time to visit the washracks and refuel before he reported in.

Carefully easing himself free of Trailbreaker's slack embrace, he rose from the berth. For a moment he hesitated, regarding him with regretful optics. It seemed rude to leave without saying goodbye, but it would be ruder still to wake a mech so badly in need of recharge. Venting a sigh, he made his way to the door without bothering with the lights, not wanting to disturb him. Activating the mechanism, Wheeljack exited into the hallway.

Preoccupied and with his back to him, he failed to notice the faint glow of Trailbreaker's optics coming online.

x.x.x.x.x

His first stop was the common room, to collect his ration of energon for the day. The room was all but deserted when he arrived; the only other 'Bot present was Prowl, seated at a table with a half-full energon cube in one hand and a datapad in the other, sipping occasionally as he read. Focused on the contents of the datapad he was holding, the second-in-command barely acknowledged Wheeljack's arrival, offering only a noncommittal grunt in response to his greeting.

That was fine with Wheeljack. He had neither the time nor the inclination to make small talk. He headed for the refueling station and swiftly dispensed his ration. As he turned away, he realized with chagrin that he already had a cube in his subspace compartment from the night before. With an embarrassed glance at Prowl, still absorbed in his datapad, Wheeljack quickly downed the full cube and dispersed it. He'd save the other for later. Perhaps Trailbreaker would need it.

That accomplished, he paid a visit to the washracks, to cleanse himself of the soil and grime he'd accumulated over the course of the previous day. Because most of the 'Bots preferred to go to the 'racks in the evening, Wheeljack had the room all to himself. The solvent was pleasantly warm for a change, and if he'd had the time to spare he might have lingered for a while, perhaps indulged in a review of some of the highlights from yesterday's memory files, but his internal chronometer indicated he had only a few breems left before his shift began. He went about his ablutions with brisk efficiency, scrubbing absently, his thoughts occupied by more pressing concerns.

He'd recharged with Trailbreaker last night, but the sensor ghosts had returned with a vengeance. It appeared his alternative solution _wasn't_ the perfect cure after all. That was worrying.

Sharing a berth with Trailbreaker had been an effective means of quelling the echoes thus far, but what if that was no longer the case? Would they return tonight, tomorrow night, _every_ night from now on, regardless of where he recharged? Or had the recently refreshed files in his cache simply been so powerful, so close to the surface that even recharging with Trailbreaker at his side wasn't enough to keep them at bay? Either possibility seemed plausible. He just didn't know.

Troubled by the prospects of either outcome, he switched off the sprayer and made his way to the dryer. The sensation of warm air blowing over his chassis was normally a soothing one, but at the moment he was too keyed up to appreciate it. There was only one solution – he'd have to recharge with Trailbreaker again tonight, and see if the sensor echoes returned. He could only hope that if they did, Trailbreaker wouldn't be awakened and feel compelled to question him. It was a risky proposition, one he would have preferred to avoid, but still more appealing than the thought of returning to his quarters to recharge alone.

Half a cure was better than none.

x.x.x.x.x

Monitor duty.

For some reason, he'd been assigned a lot of it lately. For the most part, Wheeljack didn't mind. Sometimes it was interesting – something would come up, and he'd be the first to know. He'd stand at the hub of activity, delegating orders and giving direction, playing a key role in shaping the outcome of events. It was an important position, one worthy of respect.

Other times, it was flat-out _boring_. Regrettably, this was one of those times.

Prowl and Red Alert were at their usual posts, monitoring the _Ark's_ defenses. Perceptor was in his lab, Ratchet and Hoist on call in the repair bay. The rest of the morning shift – Optimus Prime, Ironhide, Jazz, Blaster, Hound and Mirage – were out on assignment, guarding the latest advance in human technology, a new invention called the ultra-plane.

Wheeljack had been disappointed to learn he wasn't included in that particular assignment. The odds of the Decepticons showing up were high – anything challenging their supremacy of the skies was sure to garner their personal attention – but the ultra-plane was a new invention, and Wheeljack would have been willing to risk facing off against the 'Cons for a chance to examine it, to see the humans' latest technological breakthrough with his own optics. It hardly seemed fair that he be stuck here on the monitors while the others got to –

The sound of animated conversation and casual laughter interrupted his discontented musings; looking up, he saw Bumblebee entering Command, accompanied as usual by Spike, and less usually by a young human female with long blonde hair.

He recognized her immediately, his mood lightening considerably. _Carly_.

They'd met only once before, but in the course of that brief encounter the young woman had impressed him greatly. Carly was fascinated by technology, studying to become an engineer, selflessly brave, intensely loyal, occasionally reckless – in short, she was a kindred spirit, a human after his own spark. He greeted them with unabashed delight, his vocal indicators flashing brightly.

"Hi, Wheeljack!" Carly said cheerfully, evidently sharing his enthusiasm. "Good to see you again!"

"You too, Carly," he replied affably. "What brings you to the _Ark?_"

"I came to see Ironhide and Bumblebee," she said with a smile. Spike cleared his throat awkwardly. "…and Spike," she amended, casting a shy glance in his direction. "Is Ironhide around?"

"He's out on assignment," he said. "But he'll be back later, if you want to wait for him."

"I'd love to!" she said eagerly.

"Uh, actually…" Spike ventured.

"Oh, that's right," she said, looking embarrassed. "We were going to pick up Spike's dad at the airport. We were thinking of stopping at the amusement park along the way; wanna come along?"

"I'm on duty," he replied apologetically, uncertain whether he regretted it or not. It wasn't often he got the chance to speak to a peer, but he wasn't sure an "amusement park" – whatever _that_ was – was the proper forum for such a conversation, or if the suggested outing would afford him the opportunity to talk shop. Carly made a moue of disappointment at his refusal, making him chuckle.

"Sparkplug's coming back already?" he asked Spike, pleased to learn his friend would be returning so soon. He'd nearly finished constructing the mini-comm; it would make a nice welcome-home present.

"His flight's getting in in a couple of hours," Spike confirmed. "We'll be coming back here afterward, so you can talk to him then. You'll probably see Ironhide then too, Carly," he added, smiling in her direction.

Carly beamed in response.

Wheeljack looked at Bumblebee, who'd remained uncharacteristically quiet thus far, silently looking on as he conversed with the two humans. "You're taking them to the airport?" he asked.

"That's right," Bumblebee said with a nod. "I'm off duty today, so I offered to give Spike and Carly a lift," he explained, gazing fondly at the pair. "Everything quiet on the Decepticon front?" he asked, glancing back at Wheeljack.

"So far, so good," he replied. "Optimus and the others are guarding the ultra-plane during its test flight. If the 'Cons show up and start causing trouble, they'll be ready for them."

"Great!" Bumblebee said. "We'd better get going; we don't want to be late to pick up Sparkplug, and I want to see this amusement park thing." Turning back to the humans, he asked, "Spike, Carly, you two ready to roll?"

"Sure thing, Bumblebee," Carly piped eagerly. "C'mon, Spike! Nice talking to you, Wheeljack!"

"You too, Carly," he said again. "Say hi to Sparkplug for me."

"We will," Spike replied. "See you later!"

He waved to them as they left, cheered by their visit.

He was less cheered by the unexpected twinge of pain he felt as he lowered his arm – his shoulder-joint must have slipped out of alignment, or perhaps some grit had gotten caught in the seam? He'd have to ask Ratchet to take a look at – _oh_.

He'd forgotten. Ratchet was still angry at him.

His good mood abruptly dissolved, swept away by a wave of sorrow and regret. He wasn't really angry at Ratchet anymore. He didn't want Ratchet to be angry with him.

_I should comm him,_ he thought. If he tried talking to him, maybe Ratchet would be willing to listen. Wheeljack had said some terrible things, leveled some serious accusations, but Ratchet wasn't completely blameless himself. If Wheeljack apologized, maybe Ratchet would forgive him. Then they could put their differences aside and be friends again.

He was about to open a link to him when his comm pinged. _*Yeah?*_ he responded, wondering if Ratchet had had the same idea.

_*Morning, Wheeljack!*_ Trailbreaker's deep voice greeted him heartily.

_*Morning,*_ he replied, trying not to sound too disappointed. He could always comm Ratchet later. _*How are you feeling?*_ he asked over the link.

_*Better, thanks,*_ Trailbreaker said. _*Missed you when you left this morning; did you recharge well?*_

_*Yeah,*_ he fibbed. _*You?*_

_*Not too bad,*_ Trailbreaker said. _*Got up and refueled about a joor ago, then checked in with Ratchet in the repair bay. He wanted to give me a once-over, see how my recovery was going_.*

A tiny thread of apprehension coiled through his circuitry. _*How'd that go?*_ he asked warily.

_*Better than I expected,*_ Trailbreaker said with a wry chuckle. _*I was sure he was going to yell at me – let's just say he noticed right away my energy levels weren't where they ought to be – but he was actually really nice. Said I should take a couple more days to recuperate, so I'm trying to take it easy. Don't want to push my luck. Next time he might not be in such a good mood.*_

Relief coursed through him. Ratchet obviously hadn't made good on his threat to tell Trailbreaker the truth. _*That's good to hear,*_ he replied sincerely. _*I've still got an extra cube for you, if you need it.*_

_*I'm fine for now,*_ Trailbreaker said. _*Maybe later. Will you be coming by after you finish your shift?*_

_*Sure,*_ he said, _*I can do that.*_

_*Great! I'll see you then,*_ Trailbreaker replied. _*Oh! I almost forgot – Hound commed me earlier, said he and Mirage both have tomorrow off, and I was thinking, since I'm still on medical maybe we could all do something together? You know, like we talked about?*_

_*I'm on duty tomorrow,*_ he pointed out, bemused by the suggestion. The normal duty rotation typically allowed the 'Bots one Earth day off for every two or three on, and he'd had his day off yesterday. Surely Trailbreaker knew that? _*I'm on duty for the next two days,*_ he added. _*I won't be off again until the day after.*_

_*Well, yeah, I figured you would be,*_ Trailbreaker said, sounding a little put off by his tone. _*But you're an officer – don't you have some leave saved up?*_

He hesitated, taken aback. He _did_ have leave time available – almost a third of a decacycle's worth – but the thought of putting in a request for an extra day off hadn't even occurred to him. _*Yeah, I've got some,*_ he admitted.

_*You think you could take tomorrow off, then?*_ Trailbreaker asked hopefully. _*It won't work if you don't come along, and it could be orns before our schedules line up on their own. You're the only one of us who gets personal leave –*_

_*I'll put in a request,*_ he said, cutting him off before Trailbreaker could resort to outright pleading. _*I can't guarantee it'll get approved, but –*_

_*That's okay,*_ Trailbreaker said quickly. _*I'm sure it will be. And if it doesn't, I'm sure it'd be for a good reason. It's not like the Decepticons are gonna decide not to attack us just because you asked for a day off,*_ he chuckled over the link.

_*Yeah, no kidding,*_ he agreed, laughing a little himself. _*See you tonight, then?*_

_*I'll be here,*_ Trailbreaker said. _*Gonna hit the 'racks in a klik, but I'll be back in my quarters by the time you come off shift. See you then?*_

_*See you then,*_ he confirmed, closing the link. He submitted the leave request immediately, knowing advance notice would increase the odds of its approval.

He could probably use some additional time off, he reasoned, and there were worse ways he could think of to spend it than hanging out with Trailbreaker, Hound and Mirage. Pit, it might even be _fun_. He recalled how he and Trailbreaker had spent the better part of his last day off, and shivered at the memory.

It could definitely be worse.

x.x.x.x.x

He spent the next few joors working on the mini-comm, keeping a watchful optic on the monitors. Sparkplug would be back in a couple of breems, and Wheeljack wanted to have the new device ready in time for his arrival. He'd just finished making the final adjustments when he got the comm from Optimus Prime.

The news Prime relayed made Wheeljack's spark clench in dismay. Bumblebee had reported Decepticon activity at the airport – the same airport he'd taken Spike and Carly to, to pick up Sparkplug. Optimus didn't say whether Bumblebee and the humans had been likewise spotted by the 'Cons.

Wheejack hoped they were all right.

Optimus requested that he send reinforcements immediately – Prime's group was too far away and wouldn't arrive in time to assist – but a quick check of the duty roster revealed that most of the 'Bots on shift were either with Optimus or out on patrol, and none were close enough to the airport to get there in under a joor.

The discovery made his spark pulse with worry. Sparkplug, Carly and Spike were in real danger – they might even be hurt already – and no one was available to help them. For an astrosecond he debated going himself, even if it meant facing the Decepticons alone, even if it meant facing _Starscream_ – but he knew he had little hope of defeating them singlehanded, and he couldn't abandon his post in any case.

He nearly volunteered anyway when he reported back that they were understaffed, but before he could vocalize the request, Optimus gave the order to send in the Dinobots.

Wheeljack was startled by the suggestion – distracted by his concern for the humans, the thought of sending the Dinobots hadn't even entered his processor – but obviously Optimus Prime had thought of it, and that said a lot about where Wheeljack's creations stood in the optics of his commander. Optimus considered the Dinobots part of the team, contributing members to the Autobot cause.

The realization made Wheeljack's spark swell with hope and pride. Sending the Dinobots was the next best thing to going himself – no, better, because the odds of them succeeding were higher. The Dinobots were all but invulnerable, and considered a good brawl quality entertainment. Confident that his friends would soon be safe, he hurried to fetch them.

His hopes were promptly dashed by the Dinobots' response.

"Me, Grimlock, no like orders," Grimlock grumbled mutinously.

"Me, Slag, no like _anything_," Slag chimed in.

Wheeljack stared at them in disbelief, stunned by their unrepentant disobedience. The Dinobots had never rejected his orders before. He was their creator, and even at their most intractable, they'd always accorded him a certain degree of respect, always complied with his demands.

…or at least never flat-out _refused_ them.

"We really need your help," he said weakly, unable to conceal the hurt in his vocalizer. "Why won't you give us a hand?"

"Me don't know why not," Grimlock said thoughtfully. "So, we help. _This_ time."

He watched them troop off, feeling more than a little bewildered. They'd always been rebellious, but never like _this_. Had something happened to them, something he didn't know about? Had someone been picking on them? Had they overhead one of the more unkind statements some of the more vocal 'Bots were inclined to make about them? He realized with a burst of shame that he didn't know – he hadn't checked in on them in _days_.

The shame swiftly morphed into guilt. Was _that_ why they were being so uncooperative? Were they angry at him for ignoring them, for neglecting to stop in and see how they were doing?

Wheeljack resolved in that moment to spend more time with them. He'd even give them a checkup when they got back, just to make sure their programming wasn't deteriorating. Perhaps he'd made an error in the code somewhere. "I've got to work on their personality circuits," he muttered to himself.

With the Dinobots in such a peculiar mood, his worry for his human friends returned in force. He began to pace nervously, until one of the servos in his hip gave an unsettling creak, followed by a sharp twinge of pain that brought him up short.

What was wrong with him? He'd never been prone to these sorts of mechanical problems, and his last maintenance exam had been only a few days ago. Ratchet hadn't found any issues then, or at least none he'd thought worth mentioning. By now Wheeljack's regenerative systems should have taken care of any lingering damage he'd suffered during their recent impromptu visit to the Earth's sun, and he hadn't been involved in any combat since, or even any strenuous activity –

Okay, so maybe he'd engaged in some _mildly_ strenuous activity.

But even so, nothing he'd done with Trailbreaker should have resulted in the sort of minor malfunctions he was experiencing now. The faint touch of weariness, maybe, but not the pain. Trailbreaker was anything but rough.

He thought about comming Ratchet and setting up an appointment, but hesitated when he recalled what Trailbreaker had said about Ratchet's observation that his energy levels were low. If Ratchet discovered that Wheeljack's energy levels were similarly depleted, it would be patently obvious what they'd been up to, and _that_ would be just plain _embarrassing_. Even if Ratchet were inclined to approve of the fact that Wheeljack was now getting his gears stripped regularly, he'd have still found it awkward; Ratchet's opinion on his involvement with Trailbreaker only made it more so.

Maybe he could ask Sparkplug to have a look at him, instead. The human mechanic wouldn't realize the implications of Wheeljack's low energy levels, or question him about the minor scuffs and dents he might have recently acquired on his chassis. Sparkplug wouldn't recognize what those things added up to, the way Ratchet or Hoist undoubtedly would.

But that was assuming Sparkplug wasn't damaged himself, that his human friend hadn't suffered any injuries at the hands of the Decepticons during their attack on the airport.

His worry returned, stronger than ever. He wished he could comm Sparkplug and ask if he was all right, that he'd already given his friend the mini-communicator he'd invented. What if the Dinobots got lost on their way to the airport, or simply decided they didn't feel like bailing out the Autobots and their human allies yet again? What if they ended up getting into another brawl and completely forgot their mission? Normally Wheeljack would have trusted them, but in light of their recent behavior…

Distressed at the thought of Sparkplug and the others waiting vainly for help that never arrived, he commed Red Alert and apprised him of the situation.

_*I knew something was up,*_ Red Alert replied. _*I could feel it in my circuits.*_

_*Is there anyone we could spare?*_ he asked hopefully. Red Alert was close to Inferno. The fire truck wasn't on duty, but he might be willing to help purely as a favor to Red.

_*I'll go myself,*_ Red Alert commed back after a taking a moment to consider. _*Prowl can handle things here. I'll get Inferno to come along, and pull Hoist off duty in the repair bay. No one's in need of repairs at the moment, and there might be injuries to address at the site.*_

_*Thanks Red,*_ he said, feeling sincerely grateful. _*I'll let Optimus know you're on your way.*_

_*Red Alert out,*_ Red replied crisply, closing the link.

Wheeljack was able to relax a little after that – if the Dinobots failed to make it to the airport to defeat the Decepticons, Red Alert and the others would be on hand to deal with them. If the Dinobots _did_ make it, having additional assistance couldn't hurt. Odds were good Inferno would be needed in either case – Grimlock and the other Dinobots had vastly improved as a result of their training on Dinobot Island and Wheeljack's work with them, but they still erred occasionally. Even if they didn't, the Decepticons might cause enough devastation to the human structures to warrant Inferno and Hoist's expertise regardless.

There was no need to engage in pointless worrying, he assured himself. Everything would be fine.

x.x.x.x.x

The next comm came in approximately a joor later.

_*Wheeljack,*_ Hoist said, sounding uncharacteristically tentative. _*This is Hoist.*_

_*Hey, Hoist,*_ he greeted him. _*Are you still at the airport?* _

_*No,*_ Hoist replied slowly. _*I'm on my way back to the Ark now; Red Alert and Bumblebee are right behind me. The humans are with them, but the others stayed behind. Optimus and his team are on their way.*_

Wheeljack cocked his helm, disturbed by the medic's tone. Hoist was normally an effusive mech, gregarious almost to a fault, but now he spoke reluctantly, as if hesitant to provide a full report. _*So how'd it go?*_ he prodded.

There was a pause. _*Well…we managed to roust the Decepticons, but otherwise…rather badly, I'm afraid,*_ Hoist replied cautiously.

_*Did something happen?*_ he asked, his spark clenching. _*The humans – Sparkplug and Carly and Spike – are they all right?*_

_*The humans are fine,*_ Hoist replied, much to Wheeljack's relief. _*But there was a rather large explosion; the others stayed behind to help repair the damage.*_

_*Is everyone all right?*_ he pressed.

Another pause. _*No,*_ Hoist said regretfully. _*Please inform Ratchet that I'll be arriving soon with casualties. He'll need to be prepared to perform extensive repairs.*_

Wheeljack's optics widened in alarm. _*Who –?*_

_*I'll be there in just a few kliks,*_ Hoist said gently, cutting him off. _*You…you'll want to prepare yourself, too, Wheeljack. It's bad.*_

Cold dread shivered through his circuits as Hoist severed the link. Obviously one of the 'Bots had been damaged – more than one, he realized; Hoist had said _casualties_, plural – and the damage was severe. Wheeljack couldn't help but feel responsible. _He'd_ been the one to beg Red Alert to go to the airport, and he'd created the Dinobots, who he could only conclude must have failed to arrive just as he'd feared, leaving the reinforcements to face the Decepticons alone.

He ordered Teletraan-1 to alert Ratchet to prepare the repair bay as Hoist had requested rather than comming him personally, reasoning that they couldn't afford to waste precious time arguing about their personal differences while other 'Bots' sparks were at stake. That accomplished, he opened a comm link to the first mech he could think of, one he knew would be available.

_*Trailbreaker?*_ he said hesitantly when his hail was received. _*It's Wheeljack.*_

_*What's up?*_ Trailbreaker replied cheerfully, obviously pleased to hear from him. _*Did your request get approved already?*_

_*No,*_ he said. _*I just got a comm from Hoist – there are injured mechs coming in, and they need my help, but I'm stuck here on the monitors –*_

_*I'll be right down,*_ Trailbreaker replied, anticipating his request. _*No need to wait for me – go on out to meet him. I'll cover for you.*_

_*Thanks,*_ he said, relieved. _*I'll…I'll see you tonight, if I can.*_

_*Looking forward to it,*_ Trailbreaker replied fondly, and closed the link.

Wheeljack transformed, hurrying to the main entrance of the _Ark_ to await Hoist's arrival.

x.x.x.x.x

He felt as if his primary fuel lines had been severed.

As promised, Hoist arrived only moments after Wheeljack reached the entrance, towing the burned-out husk of a human cargo jet's fuselage behind him. In it were all five Dinobots, offline and unmoving.

Wheeljack stood equally motionless as he stared at the wreckage, unable to process what his optics told him he was seeing. He'd created the Dinobots to be every bit as tough and formidable as their Earth counterparts – they were practically indestructible, their armor plating nigh-impenetrable when in their alt modes, and considerable even when out of them. _How –?_

Hoist braked to a halt and transformed, rushing to his side. He had to repeat Wheeljack's name several times before the words registered, forcing the stunned engineer to acknowledge his presence.

"Wheeljack," Hoist said again, urgently. "Bumblebee and Red Alert are on their way; they'll be here soon. Did you inform Ratchet?"

"Yeah," he said, his vocal indicators barely flickering, sounding dazed even to his own audials. "Yeah, he knows. He's waiting."

"Let's get them inside," Hoist said, tugging on Wheeljack's arm when he failed to move. "Wheeljack! I need you to help me with them! Can you do that?"

"Yeah," he said again. His circuits were numb. What was happening? Hoist sounded so _worried_.

A mild shove in the direction of the wreckage got him moving, set his feet into motion. As he drew closer, he reached for the nearest appendage he could discern – Sludge's arm, he thought, or was it Snarl's? No, Sludge had spikes on his wrists, he remembered installing them. Grimlock had them too, but in reverse –

"No," Hoist said, pulling his hand away. "We need to _tow_ them in, as far as we can. You can help me carry them into the repair bay once we're closer. Right now I need you to follow me and make sure they don't fall out. All right?"

"Okay," he said, transforming.

Hoist did the same, re-engaging his tow hitch to the wreckage and pulling forward into the _Ark_. Wheeljack followed him.

On the way to repair bay, some of the haze clouding his processor began to lift, and his CPU flared to life, drowning him in a deluge of questions – what had happened? How had the Dinobots gotten so damaged? How bad was it? Would they be able to repair them –?

That last thought made his spark twist painfully in its chamber. What if they _couldn't_ fix them? What if –

The sound of Hoist transforming again broke though his daze, recapturing his attention. Reflexively, Wheeljack did the same. As he turned to face the medic, Hoist carefully lowered Swoop into his arms.

He hastened to get a firm grip on the Dinobot, to keep Swoop's limp frame from slumping to the floor. With a grunt of effort, he heaved the bulky mech onto his shoulder-strut and staggered through the repair bay doors.

He was vaguely aware of movement, of swift footsteps and a familiar, dismayed voice saying, "Oh, _no_," as he lowered Swoop gently onto the nearest berth. His joints creaked in protest, sending a distant flash of pain through his circuits, but he paid it no heed.

Somewhere behind him, he dimly registered a flurry of activity, a hasty exchange of hushed words – _How did…-ppen? -plosion. –one else? No. -ljack? -ock…like a drone_, – but it was all just white noise to his strangely muffled audials, scarcely resembling words at all.

He stared down at Swoop, taking in the mangled plating and charred components he barely recognized, even though he'd crafted most of them with his own two hands. His lifted one of those hands now, shifting it to a welding torch and applying it to the first gash in the Swoop's armor his optics settled upon. Swoop was the youngest, the kindest and most eager-to-please of his creations. It would be wrong to have a favorite among them, but –

He'd done this. He'd sent them to the airport – _they hadn't wanted to go_ – he moved on to the next ravaged component, his torch firing swiftly now – _he should have spent more time with them_ – Swoop was still offline, unresponsive, but he dampened his pain receptors anyway, performing the action automatically, without thought. He moved on to the next section, repairing damage as he went, and then the next one, and the next...

x.x.x.x.x

Six joors later, they were still hard at work. The most critical injuries had all been repaired, and while still badly damaged, the Dinobots were now stable, no longer hovering on the brink of deactivation.

Optimus Prime and his team had returned to the _Ark_ about a third of a joor after Red Alert, Bumblebee, and the humans, who had in turn gotten back less than a breem after Hoist. Red Alert had immediately returned to his post, but Bumblebee and the humans had come to the repair bay to see how the Dinobots were faring. Optimus Prime had also stopped in, checking on the Dinobots' status before leaving again to oversee the reconstruction efforts back at the airport. Some of the other 'Bots who'd been with Prime – Ironhide, Jazz, Hound and Mirage – stayed behind, hovering on the perimeter, offering their silent support.

As it became clear the Dinobots would recover from their injuries, the level of tension in the repair bay decreased considerably. Wheeljack's efforts gradually became more concerted, performed with something resembling a deliberate will rather than an instinctive, pre-programmed response. The numbing fog slowly lifted from his processor, allowing him to think and feel again.

The strongest of the returned emotions was guilt, followed closely by shame and self-recrimination. He'd let the Dinobots down, sent them on a mission that had nearly gotten them deactivated. Before that, he'd neglected them, failing to look in on them and ensure they were content and happy. He was their creator, and he'd failed them – failed them in every way that mattered.

All he could do now was try to repair the damage, to make it up to them after the fact.

Truth be told, even in _that_ he'd failed them – he'd practically gone to pieces at the mere sight of their scorched and battered frames, unable to move or focus on the task at hand until Hoist had physically prodded him into action.

_Ratchet_ hadn't come apart like that; the CMO had remained calm and in control throughout, briskly assessing the damage and determining what needed to be done, which injuries were the most critical. He'd barked orders, and Wheeljack had obeyed, grateful for the direction, to be told what to do and not have to rely on his own clouded and sluggish processor to guide him.

Wheeljack knew he would never be as strong as Ratchet. It was a constant struggle just to keep up with him. Only his own stubborn nature prevented him from giving up entirely, even though his logic circuits insisted it was a hopeless endeavor. He wasn't a medic; he was an engineer. He may have had the technical skills necessary to repair damaged mechs, but he didn't have a medic's programming, didn't have the detachment subroutines and other coping mechanisms that Ratchet possessed.

But that didn't change the fact that Wheeljack _respected_ Ratchet, admired him and wanted Ratchet to respect him in return. How could Ratchet respect him, unless Wheeljack stepped up to his level and _proved_ he was just as strong, just as worthy?

The answer was, he couldn't.

That was why Ratchet pitied him, and why Wheeljack hated it so much when he did, hated each and every reminder of his inability to live up to Ratchet's standard, every little indication that he would never be as good as Ratchet, no matter how hard he tried.

It was no wonder Ratchet pitied him – what could be more pathetic than watching a mech struggle to attain a goal so obviously beyond him? It would be like watching Sludge try to master calculus – painful at best, outright laughable at worst.

A cry of pain followed by a burst of frustrated cursing interrupted his train of thought; looking up, he saw that Ratchet had gotten a bad shock from an exposed wire he'd been trying to solder into place within Grimlock's chassis, and was now grumbling irritably about the substandard tools they had to work with on Earth.

As Hoist and Mirage commiserated with Ratchet's complaints, speaking longingly of Cybertron, Wheeljack felt his bleak mood begin to lighten. What other 'Bots might interpret as mere ill-temped griping on Ratchet's part held a very different meaning for him, because he knew Ratchet – knew him well enough to know that Ratchet _upset_ often equated to Ratchet _angry_.

Ratchet's mask of detachment may have been firmly in place for the others, but for Wheeljack that mask had slipped a little, revealing that Ratchet was, in his own way, just as shaken by the Dinobots' condition as he had been.

It was a curiously _comforting_ realization.

He managed to catch Ratchet's optics, to meet and hold his gaze for an astrosecond. They shared a look over Grimlock's bent and blackened frame, a look that was at once worried and determined, encouraging and sympathetic.

He gave a brief nod. Ratchet's lip components quirked, forming the faintest of smiles, and he nodded back. The Dinobots were their creations. They'd built them together; they'd get them through this.

United in their resolve, they resumed their task once more, working side by side, meshed like two cogs in a larger machine. No words were exchanged.

None were necessary.

x.x.x.x.x

"Okay, Swoop, transform!" he said.

The delight in his vocalizer was obvious as he issued the command. The Dinobots were all but repaired, back on their feet with only a few minor injuries remaining, damage their regenerative systems would set to rights in just under a joor. They'd relocated to Command, where the Dinobots would have more room to move and where any lingering problems with transformation or locomotion would be more readily discernible. Swoop's transformation cog was the last item on the list of complaints, and the repairs Wheeljack had performed on it were nearly complete. All that was left was this final test.

Swoop strained, struggling to obey, but it was evident he was unable to comply. Wheeljack stepped in immediately – he already had a good idea what the problem was.

"Ratchet," he called over his shoulder-strut as he opened Swoop's chestplate to make a few adjustments. "Recalibrate the resistance rating."

Ratchet did as he asked without comment. Out of the corner of his optic, Wheeljack noted that the smile that had briefly visited Ratchet's lip components a short while ago had returned, this time to stay.

Swoop's transform circuits whirred to life, whirling into motion once more. Wheeljack closed the small panel he'd opened in the Dinobot's chestplate and said, "Try it now, Swoop," his vocal indicators flashing brightly.

Swoop transformed, lifting off of the floor with a screechy roar of success.

"Good," he said, unable to conceal the relief in his vocalizer even if he'd wanted to. "Well boys, we did it," he said, feeling the tension leaving his servos for the first time in joors. He glanced over at Ratchet again, meeting his gaze. Ratchet looked as relieved as he sounded.

Ratchet turned to Hoist, thanking him for his assistance. Wheeljack was about to suggest they try and locate some high grade to celebrate their success when Optimus Prime's comm signal came through.

"How are the Dinobots, Wheeljack?" Prime asked.

"They're all set to go," he replied proudly, still flush with their success.

"Not a moment too soon," Optimus said. "The Decepticons are on the rampage again."

For an astrosecond Wheeljack was too stunned to respond. They'd finished the repairs, yes, but the Dinobots had been fully functional for less than a _klik_ – surely Prime didn't expect them to go back into action so soon? – but Optimus was already giving the order: "Dinobots, transform!"

"_No!_" Grimlock bellowed, startling them all. "Dinobots no go! Me, Grimlock, no take orders. Never!"

Wheeljack was floored by Grimlock's refusal of Prime's command – he may have been hesitant to send his creations back into battle, but he hadn't expected the Dinobots _themselves_ to object. He'd resigned himself to letting them go, knowing that any suggestion of weakness or implication that they couldn't fight would be met with great offense.

But Grimlock wasn't alone in his rebellion; Slag immediately (and somewhat predictably) voiced his agreement, and even _Swoop_ spoke up in support of Grimlock, sounding almost apologetic as he politely informed Optimus that he too was refusing to obey; _Grimlock_ was their leader.

Pleased as ever by the confirmation of his authority, Grimlock reasserted his leadership of the Dinobots, and all five of them transformed, turning to leave.

"But you love to fight!" he protested, bewildered by their inexplicable insubordination, torn between concern for their well-being and chagrin at yet another public demonstration of just how intractable and unreliable his creations could be.

"Us fight when _us_ want to!" Grimlock retorted with an angry glare that made Wheeljack's spark contract with guilt. "Now, goodbye!"

Grimlock lumbered out. The other Dinobots followed.

He watched them go, dumbfounded. "What's gotten into them?" he asked of no one in particular.

"They're scared," Ratchet said quietly. "They've never been hurt before – not like this. They're used to feeling invulnerable, like there's nothing they can't handle. Now they know they're not, and it scares them."

Wheeljack turned to look at him, and found the medic regarding him sadly.

"They're a lot like their creator that way," Ratchet observed. "I just hope they can forgive us for letting them get hurt. For not being there to protect them when they needed us."

Wheeljack stared at him in surprise, realizing abruptly that Ratchet wasn't just talking about the Dinobots. The painful clash of emotions currently warring within his spark, all the confusion and worry and guilt and helpless frustration he was feeling over his creations' injury and subsequent rejection – that was what _Ratchet_ had been feeling all along, ever since he'd learned what Starscream had done to him.

Wheeljack may have suffered the brunt of Starscream's assault, but he hadn't suffered alone.

"Ratch –" he said softly, shaken by the revelation.

Whatever he might have said, he never got to say it, because Optimus Prime chose that moment to state that if the Dinobots were unwilling to fight, the remaining Autobots would have to confront the Decepticons themselves.

Prime gave the order to roll out, and they hastened to comply.


	25. Accord

**Title: **After Atlantis  
**Obligatory Disclaimer:** I don't own Transformers. This chapter contains references to scenes and quotes dialogue from the two-part G1 cartoon episode_ "Desertion of the Dinobots."_  
**Warnings: **PTSD angst, references to rape, references to sex.  
**Author's Note: **I know you all have been waiting for this; here it is at last! This chapter happily resolves some long-standing conflicts (while simultaneously setting up all new ones.) Still no smut, but plenty of angst and awkwardness! My beta informs me that she'll be largely unavailable for the next two weeks, so there may be a longer wait for the next chapter, but hopefully nowhere near as long as the previous one.

**Chapter 25: Accord**

The battle, if it could even be called that, had been an unmitigated disaster.

Once more back in the repair bay, this time occupying a repair berth instead of attending one, Wheeljack tried to figure out what had gone wrong. They'd made it to the power plant readily enough, catching the Decepticons in the midst of an energon raid.

The first sign of trouble had been Jazz – he'd been unable to transform. The next thing they knew, they were _all_ malfunctioning; weapons backfiring, familiar systems failing to respond.

The unexpected development might have been devastating, had the Decepticons been in a position to take advantage of their vulnerability. Fortunately, whatever glitch was afflicting the Autobots had also affected the 'Cons, rendering them equally ineffective.

Ultimately both sides had retreated, limping back to their respective bases in disarray, all but crippled by the persistent, pervasive malfunctions that plagued them. Wheeljack had personally lost all motor control in his lower extremities, staggered by pain so intense it brought him to his knees – and it _hadn't_ been because of Starscream. They'd _all_ been affected, and there'd been no warning –

Or had there been?

Wheeljack abruptly recalled the minor twinges he'd felt earlier that morning, suddenly seeing them in a new and troubling light. Had the others experienced similar problems? A quick check of the maintenance request log confirmed his suspicions – nearly every 'Bot on the _Ark_ had put in a request for an appointment at some point over the course of the day. Normally such an alarming development would have immediately gained the attention of the resident repair 'Bots – but they'd been so preoccupied by the Dinobots' injuries, they'd failed to notice the atypical upsurge.

He commed Optimus, informing him of his discovery, and Prime in turn contacted Perceptor, putting the scientist to work on discovering the source of the problem. The majority of the Autobots were gathered in the repair bay, some barely able to move, others trapped in their alt modes or stuck halfway in-between. To all appearances, the situation was getting steadily worse.

Sparkplug proved his worth as an ally a hundred times over that day; unaffected as he was, the human moved rapidly from one repair 'Bot to the next, endeavoring to bring them back to a state of relative functionality that would allow them to help the others. He'd done Hoist first, at Ratchet's insistence, and now both of them were working on Wheeljack.

With all that was going on, Wheeljack had all but forgotten his own personal troubles – until Sparkplug opened up his chestplate, intent on repairing him.

Suddenly the situation seemed all too familiar. He was immobilized, his spark chamber exposed – _vulnerable_. Cold fear seized him in an icy grip, sensor echoes whispering through his CPU. Only the knowledge that Sparkplug was human, and therefore incapable of uplinking with him even if he'd wanted to, kept the fear from spiraling into full-blown panic. Tension sang through his frame, painfully tightening his servos.

Sparkplug didn't seem to notice, but Hoist was studying him intently, concern evident in his optics. Wheeljack could only hope it was his physical injuries that had captured Hoist's attention.

"I wish I could help you," he told Sparkplug, hoping to divert Hoist and stave off any inconvenient questions the medic might feel compelled to ask him. Primus willing, Hoist would conclude that Wheeljack's anxiety was merely a response to their current situation.

"Shut up and save your energy, Wheeljack," Sparkplug chided teasingly, "or I'll have to turn off your power supply."

He might have argued, but Perceptor interrupted before he could speak, announcing that he'd discovered the cause of their difficulties: cybertonium.

In hindsight, it seemed painfully obvious. Cybertonium was a vital component in every Cybertronian's physiology, an element crucial to their continued function, yet so ubiquitous few ever gave it much thought. But that was on _Cybertron_. Here on Earth, cybertonium wasn't nearly so abundant – in fact, it didn't exist at all.

Perceptor had deduced that they were all suffering from critical cybertonium depletion. After more than four million years on Earth, it was little wonder they'd finally exhausted their reserves. Failure to replenish them would inevitably lead to a slow and painful deactivation as their vital systems crashed one by one – but short of returning to Cybertron, there was no way for them to restore themselves.

It was an agonizing revelation.

Back on their home planet, the cybertonium they needed would be exceedingly simple to acquire – Wheeljack had some stashed in his old lab, even – but as Bumblebee was quick to point out, the only way to get it – apart from a lengthy journey through deep space that none of them would survive even if they'd had access to a space cruiser in the first place – was via the Decepticon space bridge.

They'd "borrowed" the space bridge before, but their condition at the time had been far more favorable. The prospect of fighting their way to it in their current operational status, even against similarly depleted 'Cons, was daunting to say the least.

But their problems didn't end there. Trailbreaker – suffering as much as the rest of them, but still striving doggedly to cover for Wheeljack on the monitors – had sent Spike and Carly to the repair bay to inform them of a Decepticon transmission Teletraan-1 had just intercepted.

Megatron had ordered Shockwave to send a shipment of cybertonium over the space bridge.

The news was met with mixed feelings. The cybertonium they needed, previously thought unreachable, was now effectively coming to them. To be more accurate, it was coming to the 'Cons, who would undoubtedly use it to repair themselves and then sweep in to crush their weakened foes.

They needed to get to the cybertonium first, but how? Most of the Autobots were so depleted they could barely move, and the few that could were in no condition to fight. The situation seemed dire. Wheeljack wracked his processor for a solution – there had to be some way for them to get the cybertonium for themselves –!

"So, uh…how are things with you and Ratchet?" Sparkplug asked suddenly, attempting to sound casual and failing miserably. Under normal circumstances, Wheeljack would have laughed at his friend's discomfited expression. He'd never seen Sparkplug look so hilariously _uncomfortable_.

"Okay, I guess," he replied. He and Ratchet hadn't truly resolved their differences, not formally, but working on the Dinobots together had cleared the air between them. Things _were_ better.

"That's good," Sparkplug said with an awkward little cough. "Glad to hear it."

Unsure how to respond to that, Wheeljack made no reply. An uncomfortable silence ensued.

"Have you two, uh…been together long?" Sparkplug asked, avoiding his gaze.

He had to laugh; Sparkplug's expression was priceless. "It's not like that," he said.

"It isn't?" Sparkplug asked, looking comically relieved. "So you two aren't –?"

He shook his helm. "No," he said, "not really."

Sparkplug's shoulders slumped, "Thank God," he said emphatically, but was quick to add, "Not that there's anything _wrong_ with that – it's just, suddenly you and Ratchet creating the Dinobots together took on a whole new meaning."

He nodded, "I understand."

"I just wasn't prepared to start thinking of you guys as, you know, having _relationships_ like that," Sparkplug explained, rubbing his forehead abashedly. "I mean, you're _robots._ But of course that's completely crazy," he said, laughing. "Robots having _relationships_."

He hesitated, but only for a moment. It seemed wrong to mislead his friend. "We do, Sparkplug," he said.

Sparkplug stared at him, his eyes wide, his mouth agape.

"It's, uh…probably a little different from what you're used to," he said, "and Ratchet and I aren't – we're not exactly the best example, but…we do."

"So, uh…Grapple and Hoist? Red Alert and Inferno…?"

He nodded. "Hound and Mirage," he confirmed, "Tracks and Blaster and Jazz."

Sparkplug's eyebrows crept up towards his hairline. "Tracks and Blaster _and_ Jazz?" he squeaked.

"Yeah," he said, "They're not exclusive, but…yeah, mostly."

"But you and Ratchet, _you're_ not –?"

He shifted uncomfortably. "Ratchet and I are – we're – it's complicated," he said.

This time Sparkplug didn't laugh at his choice of words. "How so?"

He hesitated, uncertain how much of the situation to reveal. It wasn't entirely his secret to tell.

"C'mon, Wheeljack," Sparkplug said encouragingly, "talk to me. I won't tell anyone. What's going on?"

"I think Ratchet wants to," he admitted reluctantly. "But I…"

"You don't?" Sparkplug asked.

"I don't know," he said with a shrug. "We've been friends a long time."

"You're afraid that'll change," Sparkplug said with a look of startled revelation. "That if you take things to the next level and get involved, it'll screw up what you have."

That didn't really jibe with Wheeljack's personal experience – most friendships included casual interfaces as a matter of course – and it didn't begin to cover the full scope of his current situation, but he _did_ suspect Ratchet wanted more than the typical casual encounter between friends. In that respect, Sparkplug's assessment was valid. "I guess so, yeah."

"My God," Sparkplug said, shaking his head, "I can't believe it."

"Believe what?" he said, puzzled by his tone.

"We're more alike than I thought," Sparkplug explained. "I guess some things really _are_ universal." He laughed suddenly. "No wonder you guys like soap operas so much!"

He had to laugh at that too; the mental image of Cybertronians behaving like the humans in those Earth programs was pretty amusing. Then again, maybe Sparkplug was right. Many of the 'Bots who were the biggest fans of human soap operas were also among the _Ark's_ most enthusiastic gossips...

He was about to share this observation when Carly came running up to them, Spike trailing behind her.

"Wheeljack," she said briskly, "the Dinobots don't have any cybertonium in them, do they?"

"That's true," he said, chagrined that he'd been so distracted by Sparkplug's questions he hadn't arrived at the same conclusion. Of _course_ the Dinobots would unaffected! And of course they would save them – they _had_ to. They wouldn't just leave the Autobots to their fate. Angry at him or not, Wheeljack was still their creator. "They should still be operating at full strength," he added, opening a comm link to Grimlock.

No response. Nothing.

He tried each of the Dinobots in turn, but none of them, not even Swoop, answered his hails.

"They could go to the space bridge and intercept the cybertonium!" Carly was saying eagerly.

"Assuming they're willing to help us," he said dejectedly. "They're ignoring my comms."

Sparkplug glanced at him, frowning thoughtfully. "It's still a good idea," he said, jumping down from the makeshift perch he'd used while working on Wheeljack – one of many he and Ratchet had installed alongside each repair berth for the human's convenience – and making his way over to Teletraan-1. "No, it's a great idea – _if_ they'll cooperate."

The Autobots' supercomputer swiftly located the errant Dinobots; it turned out they were only a short distance from the _Ark_. Lacking speedy alt modes, they hadn't gotten far. The question of how to get the humans to them was answered by Carly, who volunteered her car, tossing the keys to Sparkplug in acknowledgement of his idea.

"Maybe they'll listen to you," Wheeljack said weakly. "Maybe they're only torqued off at me."

"You didn't do anything, Wheeljack," Sparkplug said. "They're just being stubborn. Like Earth teenagers," he added with a teasing glance at his son. Spike rolled his eyes mockingly in response.

"Flatter them," Wheeljack advised, his vocalizer strained and husky from cybertonium depletion, his vocal indicators flashing fitfully. "Grimlock especially. When you talk to them, make sure you either address all of them, or Grimlock directly. If you acknowledge one of the others first, he'll take offense. He's their leader; he makes the decisions. He's the one you'll need to convince."

"Got it," Sparkplug said, "We'd better get going."

He watched them depart dispiritedly. If the Dinobots refused to help…

Consumed by despair and desperately craving reassurance, he opened a comm link. He did it instinctively, out of sheer habit – by the time he realized what he'd done, he was already transmitting, _*Ratch?*_

There was a startled pause, just long enough to make Wheeljack cringe inwardly, recalling too late that things were still strained between him and Ratchet, and that initiating a friendly com-chat might not have been the best idea.

_*Yeah?*_ Ratchet responded in a guarded tone.

_*It's me,*_ he said unnecessarily, finding himself suddenly at a loss for words.

_*I know it's you,*_ Ratchet replied, not in the sharp don't-be-an-idiot way Wheeljack half expected, but in a tone that sounded almost affectionate. _*Is everything all right?*_ he asked, _*Are you in pain?*_

_*A little,*_ he said, because he was, _*but that's not – do you think they'll help us_?* he asked.

Ratchet immediately grasped who "they" were. _*Of course they will,*_ he said, sounding far more confident than Wheeljack felt. _*They may be stubborn slagheads who couldn't find their afts in the dark with both hands, but they're still Autobots.*_

_*They're not answering my comms,*_ he said, wincing at how _hurt_ he sounded.

There was another pause, slightly longer this time. _*Mine either,*_ Ratchet said finally.

_*It's my fault, Ratch,*_ he said. _*I made them go.*_

_*Optimus gave the order, 'Jack, not you,*_ Ratchet sighed.

_*They don't blame Optimus,*_ he replied despondently, _*They blame _me_. Grimlock –*_

_*– is scared,*_ Ratchet broke in, _*scared and angry about _being _scared. He's not used to feeling like that. None of them are.*_

He shook his helm in denial, agonized. _*They were angry with me_ before_ they got hurt,*_ he argued. _*I practically had to_ beg_ them to go, and then they got hurt – on the mission _I_ sent them on!*_

*_'Jack – *_ Ratchet began, his tone caught somewhere between aggrieved and placating.

_*It's my fault,*_ he insisted, _*I let them down!*_

_*I know it feels that way,*_ Ratchet replied, _*Pit, right now they might even agree with you. But if they do, they'll get over it. It's_ not _your fault, 'Jack. They're not sparklings, and in case you've forgotten, we're involved in a _war _here. They're going to get damaged – eventually we all do. You can't always be there to protect them. You're not Primus. You're just a mech.*_

_*I should have spent more time with them,*_ he said brokenly. _*I should have found a way to go along –*_

_*If you had, you'd have gotten blown up right along with them,*_ Ratchet retorted curtly. _*The only difference is_ you're_ used to it. They're not.*_

Wheeljack was stunned. _*How can you –?*_

_*Blaming yourself won't help them,*_ Ratchet said, cutting him off. _*It happened, and I wish it hadn't, but neither one of us can change that, 'Jack. We can be there for them, help them get through it, but unless you plan on inventing a time machine next, we can't make it unhappen.*_

He didn't respond. He knew Ratchet was right, but it didn't make it hurt any less, or take the sting out of the guilt gnawing at his spark.

_*I know it hurts,*_ Ratchet added in a gentler tone, _*Believe me, I know _exactly how _much it hurts. But you can't let it consume you. Do you think Optimus doesn't care when one of us gets hurt? Or that I don't?*_

_*I know you care, Ratch,*_ he said. _But I'm not like you,_ he thought. _I'm not strong like that. I'm just…_ not. He vented a sigh. _*I just don't want them to hate me.*_

_*They don't hate you,*_ Ratchet assured him, _*They'll forgive you, 'Jack. Eventually. Give them time to sort out what they're feeling. They'll come around.*_

_*What if they don't?*_ he asked morosely. _*Assuming they help us now, assuming we all survive this – what if they never do?*_

_*They will,*_ Ratchet insisted. _*Don't you get it, Wheeljack? They blame _you_ because you're _safe_ to blame. They can push you away, because a part of them knows you'll still care about them even if they do. That you'll always be there for them when they need you.*_

He nodded slowly, forgetting that Ratchet couldn't see his silent agreement over the comm link. Ratchet had been there for _him_ like that, was offering his reassurance even now, after all the terrible things Wheeljack had said to him.

_*I'm sorry, Ratch,*_ he commed contritely, _*I was awful to you.*_

_*It's all right,*_ Ratchet replied. His tone was light and dismissive, suggestive of a smile, but beneath that Wheeljack could detect the faintest hint of relief. _*I know you didn't mean it.*_

Ratchet's acceptance of his apology eased some of the tension from his servos, made him vent a sigh of relief himself. It hadn't felt right, being at odds with Ratchet. It was only now with the balance restored that Wheeljack realized just how much their estrangement had been weighing on him.

_*I did kind of mean it,*_ he confessed. _*I was pretty mad at you.*_

_*You had a right to be,*_ Ratchet said. _*I shouldn't have jumped you like that. That was…the wrong thing to do.*_

_*But you wanted to, right?*_ he asked quietly. _*It's what you wanted to do.*_

_*Doesn't make it right,*_ Ratchet grumbled. _*It was supposed to be about you, not me.*_

_*I didn't mind,*_ he said. _*The first part, I mean, before you – *_

_*Yeah,*_ Ratchet agreed, _*if I had stopped there, it probably would have been okay.*_

_*Why didn't you?*_ he asked, realizing even as he said it that that very question had been plaguing him for days. _*First you turn me down flat, then you try to uplink with me –*_

Ratchet vented a gusty sigh, one loud enough to carry over the comm. _*I thought you wanted me to,*_ he said wearily. _*I thought that's what you were trying to tell me, what you'd been trying to say all along. But it wasn't. It was what I_ wanted _you to say.*_

_*Oh,*_ was all he could think of to reply.

_*I screwed up,*_ Ratchet said, his tone thick with regret. _*I was so caught up in what I wanted, I forgot about you. So I don't blame you for freaking out, or getting angry at me. I blew it.*_

_*It wasn't _that _bad,*_ he said, which earned him a derisive noise in response. _*Well, okay, it kinda was – my processor practically locked up – but…*_ he cycled his intakes, steeling himself, and continued, _*I don't think it would have, if you'd just…why didn't you _tell_ me, Ratch? If that was how you felt –*_

_*I don't know,*_ Ratchet replied resignedly. _*At first, it was just a passing attraction. I didn't act on it because we were working together, and that always complicates things – but then I got to know you, realized –*_

_*But you never_ said_ anything,*_ he protested. _*You never asked me if I wanted to 'face with you; you never acted like you were even_ interested!_*_

_*I guess I was afraid you'd say no,*_ Ratchet replied wryly, _*so I figured I'd let you come to me, that if you wanted to, you'd tell me.*_

Wheeljack was silent, absorbing his longtime friend's unexpected confession. He'd had _no_ idea. In all the time he'd known him, Ratchet had never seemed to lack an abundance of willing and eager partners, had never hesitated to pursue a mech he desired with unabashed enthusiasm. Wheeljack had therefore assumed the reason Ratchet never approached _him_ was because he simply didn't _want_ to.

_*I guess…that was what I thought, too,*_ he said quietly, almost to himself.

_*'Jack,*_ Ratchet said, soft and startled, _*are you saying –?*_

"We did it!" Carly announced jubilantly, running into the room. The human woman's face was flushed, her eyes bright with triumph. "The Dinobots are on their way to the space bridge to get the cybertonium!"

Wheeljack looked up at the unexpected interruption, just in time to see Spike and Sparkplug entering the room at a more moderate pace. His audials caught Sparkplug's wry comment, "I hope you've got the energy to keep up with her, son," as they approached the berth.

The humans had been gone for approximately a joor. Their return and the news of their success was met with much celebration by the ailing Autobots. The cybertonium they needed was on its way; all they had to do now was await the Dinobots' return.

But after a few breems, they were forced to acknowledge that something had gone wrong. The Dinobots should have been back by now. In the time it had taken the humans to return to the _Ark_, Grimlock and the others should have reached the space bridge and had their mission well underway.

Wheeljack began to worry. What was keeping the Dinobots? Why hadn't they commed? Were they in trouble? Had they been hurt again? Or worse –

Sparkplug seemed concerned as well. He activated Teletraan-1, hailing Grimlock.

The reason for the delay was promptly revealed. The Dinobots hadn't just gone to the space bridge – somehow they'd managed to _activate_ it, and had been transported back to Cybertron! Worse yet, when Grimlock finally deigned to answer their comms, the Dinobot leader announced they had no intention of returning.

Wheeljack's spark sank. His creations had abandoned them. Abandoned _him_.

"How do you like that?" Spike said, "They're going to _stay_ on Cybertron!"

"Then we've got no choice," Carly replied, "We've got to go to Cybertron and get more cybertonium."

Wheeljack was startled; he'd known Carly was brave, but he'd never expected her to volunteer for such a dangerous mission – surely the idea of going to an alien planet, risking life and limb, would be a daunting notion for the young woman – yet there wasn't the slightest hint of hesitation in her demeanor. Once again, he found himself impressed by her seemingly boundless courage.

Spike and Sparkplug seemed equally surprised; Spike was quick to point out that Optimus Prime would never allow it. Carly just as quickly retorted that Prime was hardly in any condition to _stop_ them.

They were right on both counts.

Sparkplug appeared similarly troubled by the idea, pointing out several flaws in Carly's plan. How would they get past the Decepticons to utilize the space bridge? Even as weakened as they were, it was unlikely the 'Cons would have left it unguarded. Assuming they managed that, how could they be sure they'd be able to get any cybertonium once they reached Cybertron? They didn't have time to go searching the entire planet for it.

Wheeljack was able to answer the last question, volunteering that he had a small supply of cybertonium stored in his old lab. If Spike and Carly had been Cybertronian, he would have downloaded the route directly to their navigation arrays, but since they were human, he had to rely on verbal instructions.

This brought up a new question – what if they got lost? The Autobots hadn't been to Cybertron in a very long time. Changes might have been made, landmarks altered that would render his directions useless. Feeling somewhat reluctant for their sakes, but aware that this was their only remaining option, Wheeljack provided the directions with as much detail as he could muster, praying it would be enough.

Sparkplug opted to remain behind, to continue his repairs on the Autobots in the hope that if the Decepticons attacked before Spike and Carly returned, at least one or two of them might be functional enough to defend the rest. The two young humans headed back outside to where Carly's car was waiting.

Sparkplug sighed as he picked up his wrench, his forehead creased with worry. Almost too late, Wheeljack recalled his latest invention and called the human over.

"It's a two-way communicator," he explained as he produced it from subspace, briefly demonstrating how it worked. "I made it so you'd be able to contact us even without Teletraan-1. But if you give it to Spike, you'll be able to stay in touch with him, even on Cybertron."

"Will we be able to guide them with this?" Sparkplug asked, immediately grasping the mini-comm's value.

"Should be," he replied with a nod, "Teletraan-1 can help. I built it for you, but I'd feel a lot better if they had it right now."

"So would I," Sparkplug said. "Thanks, Wheeljack! I'd better go catch them before they leave."

Wheeljack relaxed back onto the berth as the Sparkplug hurried out, feeling relieved. At least he'd done _one_ thing right today, helped in some way to improve their circumstances rather than making them worse. It felt good to know his human friend would still be able to communicate with his son, both for Sparkplug's peace of mind, and for the increased odds of success it granted Carly and Spike.

The Dinobots still weren't answering his comms.

x.x.x.x.x

Somehow, Spike and Carly had made it.

As impossible as it seemed, they'd managed to get past both Devastator _and_ Shockwave, and had taken shelter within the power core of the last remaining master computer on Cybertron, currently under Decepticon control.

By the time they checked in, most of the Autobots were offline. Trailbreaker had finally surrendered Wheeljack's post in Command, barely making it to the repair bay before he collapsed. The twins were down, as were Cliffjumper and Brawn. Optimus had fallen before Spike and Carly had even left the _Ark_, leaving Prowl and Jazz in command. Both struggled to stay online as long as they were able, but eventually they too succumbed, slumping to the floor where they stood. Or at least Prowl did – Jazz had been seated, caught in mid-transformation with his legs still trapped in their alt mode when his systems finally gave out.

Bumblebee, concerned for the welfare of his best friend, had held out the longest, but in the end he too had crumpled, landing on top of the already-insensate Prowl in an ungainly sprawl, a fact that would surely embarrass him when he came back online.

_If_ he ever came back online. Spike and Carly were now their only hope.

Somewhat bolstered by Sparkplug's efforts to repair him, Wheeljack had managed to stay online longer than most, but could do little but lie on the berth and offer the occasional weak reply to Sparkplug's queries. Knowing he wouldn't last long, Wheeljack had uploaded his navigational schematics to Teletraan-1, leaving Sparkplug to rely heavily on the Autobots' supercomputer to guide him as he directed Spike and Carly to Wheeljack's old lab.

x.x.x.x.x

"-ljack," someone was saying, "Where's the cybertonium?"

His processor seemed fuzzy and sluggish. What was happening? Where was he? Why did he hurt so much?

"Wheeljack!" the voice said again urgently, "in your lab, on Cybertron – where did you keep the cybertonium?"

Someone was shaking him. It hurt. He made a weak sound of protest. The shaking stopped.

The voice was familiar, but he couldn't seem to place it. It was asking him something, something important. He needed to respond, to answer the question – what _was_ the question? He tried to activate his vocalizer to ask, but all that emerged was a vague clicking noise.

That wasn't right. He should –

x.x.x.x.x

He onlined his optics to the bright overhead lights of the repair bay, and immediately dialed down their sensitivity to the near-blinding glare. A shadow moved over him, blocking the lights, forcing him to adjust them again. As he did the figure standing over him resolved itself into the familiar red-and white form of Ratchet, gazing down at him with a fond smile on his lip components.

"Welcome back to the land of the functioning," Ratchet said dryly.

"Ratch," he said, his vocalizer sounding creaky and unused, "What happened? The Dinobots –"

"They're fine," Ratchet replied, "and back on Earth where they belong, I'm happy to say. Spike and Carly made it back with them and the cybertonium, which is why you're talking to me now. They saved us."

"You were right," he rasped, embarrassed by his own lack of faith in his creations, but never more relieved to be wrong. "They didn't abandon us."

"Technically they _did_," Ratchet said. "And then they went and got themselves into trouble on Cybertron. Fortunately for them, Spike and Carly were there to bail them out. It made quite an impression on them, being the ones getting rescued for a change."

"Is everyone else okay?" he asked.

"The Dinobots are," Ratchet said, "and Spike and Carly and Sparkplug, of course. But the others still need their cybertonium stores replenished. Sparkplug fixed me first, and I fixed you while he started working on Hoist – he should be done with him soon. The others are all still offline. We've got quite a repair job ahead of us."

"Right," he nodded, sitting up. Ratchet offered him a hand, and he took it without hesitation, allowing the medic to pull him to his feet. "Let's get started."

x.x.x.x.x

The repairs were extensive and exhausting – Wheeljack was grateful for the extra energon cube he'd stashed in his subspace, as was Ratchet, whom he'd split it with – but after several joors, the majority of the Autobots were back online and out of danger. They'd begun with Optimus Prime and the other officers, followed by any mechs that had a background in construction, science, or maintenance.

Replacing each mech's depleted cybertonium reserve was only the first and most crucial step in the process. Many had suffered system failures as a result of cybertonium starvation, failures which had in turn caused damage to other systems that required additional repair. Several of the 'Bots who'd been among the first to be fixed fell into this group, including Jazz, Perceptor, and Ironhide.

Too weary to continue, Sparkplug left to check on his son. Grapple and Huffer, who hadn't suffered additional damage and had experience in performing field repairs, were promptly enlisted to aid them. (Skyfire also qualified, but had been excused due to his size.) The two of them went from mech to mech among those still offline, providing them with preliminary infusions of cybertonium to bring them around while they waited their turn with one of the three repair 'Bots. The officers who didn't require additional repairs, but also lacked sufficient knowledge perform them – Optimus Prime, Prowl, and Red Alert – were released by Ratchet and left to resume their abandoned posts aboard the _Ark_.

The number of Autobots that were offline and in danger of deactivation swiftly decreased, but the number of 'Bots in need of additional repairs steadily grew. It became evident as the day wore on that many of the 'Bots who possessed unique mods or who had had problems relating to transformation had been impacted the most, while those with more standard mods and maintenance issues were quickly restored to the point where their regenerative systems could take over.

Ratchet released those in the latter group after a cursory examination and a stern warning to return to the repair bay if they experienced any further malfunctions. Those in the former group, who were effectively functional but needed more extensive repairs before they could be declared fully operational, were given the choice to remain in repair bay and wait their turn, or leave and come back later. Ironhide left immediately, to no one's surprise, as did Blaster. Jazz probably would have left too if his legs had been operational; his superiors and both his lovers had already been released. Perceptor likewise had little choice – he was still stuck in microscope mode. Mirage opted to remain, prompting Hound to do likewise, which in turn decided Trailbreaker.

Most of the Autobots who'd been released vanished promptly upon being given the all clear, but Bluestreak took it upon himself to go on an impromptu energon run, returning a few kliks later with cubes from the commissary for the hardworking repair 'Bots and those still awaiting their attention.

Wheeljack nodded his thanks to Bluestreak as he accepted the energon cube the gunner offered him, pausing in his efforts to repair Mirage's electro-disruptor long enough to consume it.

"Will you be joining us tomorrow, Wheeljack?" Mirage asked. "Thank you, Bluestreak," he said politely as he too was handed a full cube.

Wheeljack waited until Bluestreak had moved off before replying to Mirage's question. "Dunno," he said, "I put in a request for a day's leave, but with everything that's been going on, it hasn't been approved yet."

"Hound wants to go to a fish hatchery," Mirage replied in a conspiratorial tone. "I'm sure he and Trailbreaker will enjoy that, but I think you and I would prefer a slightly more stimulating activity. I plan to suggest that we make use those water skis you installed a while back."

That _did_ sound more appealing to Wheeljack than spending a day looking at fish. "I'm with you," he said, "I've been wanting to try those out again myself."

Mirage smiled. "I'm sure the fish will be very interesting," he said diplomatically, "but it's always good to have a backup plan."

Wheeljack chuckled and agreed.

After they'd finished refueling, he continued his repair work on Mirage. The spy lingered after he was done, having decided to wait for Hound. Ratchet was working on Jazz; Hoist still busy with Perceptor – repair work on transformation cogs was often time-consuming. Wheeljack moved on to Trailbreaker, who grinned broadly at his approach.

"Do Hound first," Trailbreaker said as he drew nearer. "Mirage is waiting for him."

He hesitated. "Are you sure? It could be a while before one of us gets to you."

"I don't mind," Trailbreaker said. "Hound's practically climbing the walls," he added with a chuckle. "Besides, I'm kind of enjoying watching you work."

"All right," he said, his circuits heating at little at the indirect compliment. He made his way over to Hound, feeling Trailbreaker's optics on him and trying to ignore the slow flush of warmth coiling up his backstrut in response. Suddenly he found himself quite eager to call it a day.

"Coming with us tomorrow, Wheeljack?" Hound asked cheerfully as he neared. Mirage was standing beside Hound's berth, a hand resting on his shoulder-strut; as Hound spoke the spy met Wheeljack's optics with a small, sneaky grin.

"If my leave request gets approved," he replied, getting started on Hound's damaged hologram projector.

"Great!" Hound said. "Looking forward to it. I've got a great idea for how to spend it – you like fish?"

"Let him work, Hound," Mirage interrupted gently. "You can tell him all about it after you're fixed."

"Aw, c'mon 'Raj, I was just telling him –"

"I know," Mirage interrupted soothingly, "but the more you talk, the harder it will be for Wheeljack to work, and the longer it will take for you to be repaired."

Hound appeared ready to protest, until Mirage added, "…and the longer _I'll_ have to wait to have you all to myself," with a look so heated it was practically smoldering.

Hound's objections were instantly forgotten. "So, uh, how long do you think my repairs'll take, Wheeljack?" he asked.

"A few breems at most," he replied with a chuckle. Mirage clearly had Hound's characteristic exuberance well in hand. "You'll be out of here soon."

He resumed the repairs on Hound's hologram projector. Neither Hound nor Mirage said anything further, although from the subtle shifts in their posture and expressions Wheeljack suspected they were conversing privately over their comms – he didn't pause to speculate about _what_ – leaving him to finish his work in silence.

Meanwhile, Ratchet had completed the repairs on Jazz and moved on to Trailbreaker. Behind him Wheeljack overheard Trailbreaker's greeting, "Good to see you again, doc! Wish it wasn't quite so soon," and Ratchet's gruff reply, "Force field, or communications array?"

"Both," Trailbreaker said with a touch of chagrin. "Sorry, Ratchet."

"That's all right," Ratchet replied, his tone softening. "Not your fault."

x.x.x.x.x

The remainder of the repairs were completed in roughly half a joor.

Hoist finally finished with Perceptor, earning him the scientist's quiet gratitude. Wheeljack completed his work on Hound – after which he and Mirage departed so quickly they practically left skid marks – and turned to see how Ratchet was faring.

"That should do it," Ratchet said, closing the panel he'd opened up in Trailbreaker's chestplate to work on his force field mod. "Be sure to refuel tonight before you recharge, and watch those energy levels!" he advised sternly.

"Will do, doc," Trailbreaker replied, sitting up. He grinned as he spied Wheeljack approaching. "I'm all patched up," he announced happily.

He nodded, "Hound is too; he just left with Mirage."

"Bet I know where they're headed," Trailbreaker said wryly. "Guess I'll go back to my quarters – after I stop and grab a cube," he amended with a sheepish nod to Ratchet. "See you later?"

"Sure," he said, all too aware of Ratchet's disapproving gaze resting heavily upon him.

"Great!" Trailbreaker said, pushing off the berth. "Thanks, Ratchet," he told the medic, "You're the best."

"Go on, get outta here," Ratchet grumbled.

With a final wave, Trailbreaker departed. Hoist and Perceptor had already left. Ratchet waited approximately half a klik for Trailbreaker to get out of audial range before asking in an undertone, "What do you plan to do about him?"

Wheeljack, who'd turned away to begin putting away his tools, cocked his helm at the question. "What do you mean?" he asked over his shoulder-strut.

"Are you going to see him again?" Ratchet said, beginning to gather his own tools.

"Sure," he said. "We've got plans for tomorrow."

Ratchet paused, a spanner in hand. "So you'll tell him then?"

"Tell him what?" he asked, bemused. Turning around, he caught sight of the incredulous look Ratchet was giving him. That clued him in. "I told you before, Ratch, I'm not telling him about Starscream," he said defensively. "He doesn't need to know!"

Ratchet threw the wrench at him.

x.x.x.x.x

Wheeljack made his way down the corridor of the residential section where Trailbreaker's quarters were located, absently rubbing the fresh dent in his helm. His conversation with Ratchet in the repair bay had quickly devolved into a lot of cursing on Ratchet's part, and a lot of ducking on his.

He didn't take it personally. In fact it was almost comforting. The fact that he'd provoked Ratchet into one of his famous temperamental outbursts only served to reassure him that things between them were finally back to normal.

More or less.

He knew Ratchet was frustrated with him, at his unwillingness to follow his advice and tell Trailbreaker about...that. But what Ratchet didn't know – Wheeljack hadn't had a chance to tell him – was that things had changed since the last time they spoke.

Back then, he _had_ been treating Trailbreaker unfairly, feigning an interest he didn't honestly feel. That was wrong; Ratchet had been right about that. But that wasn't how it was anymore. While he and Ratchet had been arguing, he'd spent a lot of time with Trailbreaker, and had come to a certain realization.

He sincerely _liked_ Trailbreaker. He respected and admired him. He enjoyed his company.

That changed things, didn't it?

Shrugging to himself, he halted outside the door to Trailbreaker's quarters and transmitted his query ping.

There was no response.

He waited several kliks, growing more concerned with every passing astrosecond. The door remained closed. He sent a second, more urgent ping. Had something happened to Trailbreaker? Had Ratchet overlooked some critically damaged component in the course of his repairs?

Spark clenching in alarm, he pounded on the door, wincing each time his fist struck the smooth metal at at the way the sound echoed down the empty corridor. He was about to employ an emergency override code when the door abruptly slid open, revealing a very startled-looking Trailbreaker.

"What's going on?" Trailbreaker asked groggily. "Are we under attack?"

"No," he said, shaking his helm, "Are you all right? I pinged you, but you didn't answer."

"Sorry," Trailbreaker said, "I was in recharge."

That brought him up short. "You were recharging?"

"Yeah," Trailbreaker said, looking slightly more alert. "What's wrong? Is everything okay?"

"Fine," he said, still struggling to process the fact that Trailbreaker wasn't injured, or offline. "You – you were in recharge?" he asked again.

"Yeah," Trailbreaker repeated, sounding almost amused, "Doctor's orders, remember?"

"Oh," he said, feeling bewildered, "So you – you weren't waiting for me?"

Trailbreaker looked abashed. "Well, no. I figured you'd want to get some recharge yourself; you've been working all day –"

"But you asked me to come by," he interrupted, "and I said I would!"

"I know, but," Trailbreaker said, nonplussed, "that was before we all –" he trailed off, noting Wheeljack's mortified expression.

His processor was reeling. Trailbreaker hadn't been expecting him. He'd been resting peacefully, enjoying some much-needed recharge – until Wheeljack had woken him by banging on his door like a lunatic.

"Did you want to come in?" Trailbreaker asked.

"I – no," he said, feeling like a complete idiot. "I'm – I'll just go. Sorry for waking you."

"You don't have to go," Trailbreaker said, reaching for his hand and giving it a gentle tug, "C'mon in."

He allowed himself to be pulled inside. The door slid shut behind him, engulfing them in darkness.

Trailbreaker activated the lights a moment later. "So what's up?" he asked, taking a seat on the berth. "Everything all right?"

"Fine," he said again, "I just – I thought you wanted me to come over after my shift ended," he explained sheepishly, "that you were waiting for me. When you didn't answer my pings…"

"You got worried," Trailbreaker concluded, "figured something was wrong."

"Yeah," he said, shrugging awkwardly. "Sorry."

"You don't have to apologize," Trailbreaker said, "I understand. And you're welcome to come over anytime you want. I just wasn't expecting you tonight – it'd been such a long day, I didn't think you'd be up for it."

Wheeljack stared at him blankly. Up for –? _Oh_. "I didn't come for _that_," he said, his circuits heating in embarrassment.

"Oh," Trailbreaker said. "Well, that's…probably a good thing. I think Ratchet would peel back my plating if we did." He fell silent for a moment, studying him thoughtfully. "Did something happen?" he asked.

"W-what do you mean?" he stammered.

"It must have been rough, having to work with Ratchet all day," Trailbreaker said, "what with you two fighting, and all."

"We're not – we're okay now," he said. "We worked it out."

"Oh," Trailbreaker said diffidently. "That's good. Glad to hear it."

"I think the Dinobots might be mad at me though," he ventured.

"The Dinobots? Why?"

"Because I sent them to the airport to fight the 'Cons, and they got hurt," he said, shrugging. "It was Prime's order, but I'm the one who sent them."

"I heard they got pretty messed up," Trailbreaker said. "It must have been hard for you, seeing them like that."

"Yeah," he said, taking a seat on the berth beside him. "At first we weren't sure they would make it."

Trailbreaker slipped an arm around him, drawing him close. "That must've been pretty scary."

"Yeah," he admitted, "I kinda lost it."

"But it all worked out," Trailbreaker said brightly. "The Dinobots are fine, and we got the cybertonium."

He nodded, "Yeah."

Trailbreaker seemed about to add something when Wheeljack suddenly sat up a little straighter. "What is it?" he asked.

"I just got a message," he explained as he accessed the file, "It's from Prowl – oh. My request's been approved."

"For your day off?" Trailbreaker asked hopefully.

"Yeah," he said, his vocal indicators flashing brightly, "looks like I'll be coming with you tomorrow."

"That's great!" Trailbreaker said, giving him a one-armed hug. "We're gonna have a blast. Hound told me he had a great idea for where we could go."

He nodded, "Mirage told me. He's planning on taking us to a, uh…fish place?"

"The fish hatchery?" Trailbreaker asked eagerly. "I've been wanting to go there! That _is_ a great idea. Wow – I can't wait!"

Wheeljack wasn't quite so enthused, but Trailbreaker's obvious excitement warmed his spark. "Sounds like fun," he said tactfully.

"I'm really glad you're coming along," Trailbreaker said, sobering a little. "As much as I'd like to go, I don't think I'd have been able to if you weren't."

"Why not?" he asked.

"Because of – you know, 'cause of Mirage," Trailbreaker said sheepishly. "If it was just me an' Hound, it'd be different, but both of them together…"

He nodded, "I understand."

"I'm happy for Hound," Trailbreaker said quickly, "I _am_, really – Mirage is a great mech. Hound really likes him, and he's always been nice to me. But when they're together…"

"You feel like you're intruding," he said.

"I feel like I'm _invisible_," Trailbreaker said bitterly.

Wheeljack wrapped an arm around him, rubbing Trailbreaker's shoulder-strut comfortingly.

Trailbreaker looked up at the touch, meeting his optics. "It's not that I'm jealous or anything," he said. He frowned faintly, "Okay, maybe I am, but not like _that_," he said. "It's just – Hound's my best friend, you know? We used to do everything together, and now he spends all his time with Mirage."

"You miss him," Wheeljack said.

"Yeah," Trailbreaker said, turning slightly into their embrace. "But I don't really blame him," he said, his voice dropping, his hand lifting to trace the outline of Wheeljack's insignia, "Since I started seeing you…I kinda get it. Why he doesn't comm me much anymore."

"Yeah," he said, his own voice barely a whisper.

"Maybe that's why Ratchet's mad at you," Trailbreaker said, leaning in closer, "because you're spending so much time with me. Maybe he misses you, too."

"Maybe," he said.

Trailbreaker's lip components scraped lightly over his neck cables, his hand drifting over Wheeljack's grille, making his intakes hitch at the sensation. Wheeljack raised a hand to touch him in return, but Trailbreaker pulled away, cycling a shaky draught of air through his intakes. "You're making it hard for me to behave myself," he said wryly.

"Do you want me to go?" he asked.

"No," Trailbreaker said, shaking his helm, "I think that would make it even harder," he chuckled. "I overloaded myself in the washracks earlier thinking about you," he said. "If you leave, I think I might do it again."

"Oh," he said, a flush of heat suffusing his circuits at the compliment, not to mention the images that arose in his CPU in response to Trailbreaker's admission.

"Do you mind recharging with me tonight?" Trailbreaker asked. "We could go for energon together in the morning."

"Sure," he said. "I'd like that."


	26. Attention

**Title: **After Atlantis  
**Obligatory Disclaimer:** I don't own Transformers. This chapter contains oblique references to the G1 cartoon episodes _"S.O.S. Dinobots," "Traitor," "The Ultimate Doom"_ (part one) and _"City of Steel."_  
**Warnings: **PTSD angst, references to rape, references to sex, sexual humor.  
**Author's Note: **Happy holidays, everyone! I wanted to have this chapter up for Xmas for you all, but family gatherings + holiday travel = no internets, so it's a little late. Extra special thanks goes to my beta**/**brainstorm buddy Kookaburra for the suggestion of and assistance with the descriptions of Bonneville fish hatchery – I've never been there, but I agree it's right up Hound's alley, and has the added bonus of being close to what's considered the windsurfing capital of the world. Not a bad date, IMO – especially when you have built-in water skis!

**Chapter 26: Attention**

_Someone was touching him._

The realization crept slowly though Wheeljack's slumbering CPU, rising ponderously to the surface of his consciousness as his processor registered the external stimuli being recorded by his primary sensor grid: A hand sliding over his chestplate. Fingers tracing the edge of his windshield. A presence looming over him.

In the span of an astrosecond he went from offline and insensate to hyper-alert, every sensor and circuit shrieking in strident warning. He jerked violently, a startled shout bursting from his vocalizer as his arms flailed outward defensively, striving to ward off the attack he sensed was imminent.

He heard the resounding clash of metal against metal as he struck something solid and unyielding, felt the impact vibrating up the length of his arm and heard the low, startled grunt that accompanied it – he'd scored a hit. He swung again immediately, hoping to deny his assailant any opportunity to rally, but his CPU was still half-engaged in its recharge cycle, his systems were slow to respond. His opponent was quicker, catching hold of his hands and throwing his full weight against him, pinning him bodily.

He began to struggle instinctively, bucking and twisting in an effort to dislodge his attacker. His vents were cycling rapidly, his intakes heaving as he endeavored to escape. _Not again, he _thought desperately,_ Not again! _He wasn't immobilized this time; he could stop it, he could_ fight_ –

"Wheeljack, _stop!_ It's me, _'Breaker!_"

His optics snapped online, his struggles ceasing abruptly as the familiar voice penetrated his panicked CPU, dragging him out of his fear-soaked daze and into full consciousness. The first sight that greeted them was Trailbreaker's wide, frightened optics, staring down at him in alarm.

Wheeljack's spark contracted as comprehension came crashing down on him, bringing with it the crushing realization of where he was and what he had done. Trailbreaker had obviously awakened first, found him still offline, and sought to rouse him with gentle touches, no doubt hoping to start the morning off with a pleasant interface.

Instead of welcoming his advances, Wheeljack had responded as if he were under attack.

He hadn't experienced any sensor echoes, but he had exposed himself upon awakening just as badly as if he _had_ – perhaps more so. Trailbreaker was sure to demand an explanation for his inexplicable behavior, but Wheeljack had none to give – at least, none he was willing to share. But he had to say _something_, provide some sort of plausible excuse –

"Are you all right?" Trailbreaker asked worriedly.

"Are you?" he replied, hoping to divert him. There were several fresh scuffs on Trailbreaker's chassis, marks he hadn't had the night before – evidence of Wheeljack's rude awakening.

Trailbreaker glanced down at himself, following his gaze. "Those'll buff out," he said, shrugging dismissively. "I'm more worried about _you_," he said, meeting his optics again with a look of concern. "What happened?"

"I…I guess you startled me," he said.

"No kidding," Trailbreaker replied wryly. "You sure you're okay?"

"Yeah," he said, "I'm fine. Sorry for – you know, hitting you. I guess I, uh…forgot where I was."

Trailbreaker frowned faintly, regarding him with a blend of worry and suspicion. "Where did you think you were?" he asked.

"Nowhere specific," he replied hastily, his spark clenching in anxiety. He counted to five, struggling for calm. "I was just surprised, that's all. I'm used to recharging alone."

"You acted like you thought I was attacking you," Trailbreaker said reproachfully.

"Well, we're – we're at war, right?" he said. "You never know when the 'Cons might show up."

"You thought I was a _Decepticon?_" Trailbreaker asked, sounding both hurt and dubious.

_One very specific Decepticon,_ he thought darkly. "I wasn't fully online," he said, doing his best to sound matter-of-fact and casual, as if his reaction had been perfectly reasonable. "I felt something touching me, and I'm used to recharging alone, so I assumed…"

The look of doubt on Trailbreaker's faceplate faded, allowing hurt to step to the fore. "Oh," he said. "I see."

"I'm really sorry," he said, and he truly meant it. "I just _forgot_, that's all. I like recharging with you, honest. I'm just not used to it yet."

"Sorry for scaring you," Trailbreaker replied. "I'll be sure to remember that next time." He chuckled. "Note to self," he said in a joking tone, "Wheeljack doesn't like surprises."

"…I like _some_ surprises," he muttered grudgingly.

"Yeah?" Trailbreaker retorted, grinning. "How about this one?" he asked playfully, shifting against him and giving Wheeljack's captive hands a gentle squeeze, making his intakes hitch at the sudden rush of sensation.

"…that was okay," he said huskily after taking a moment to recover.

His words elicited another chuckle. Looking amused, Trailbreaker did it again, drawing a soft moan from his vocalizer.

He'd started to heat up a little – no, make that a _lot_. It was sort of embarrassing, really – the charge that had built up in his circuits in response to the terror that had briefly suffused them had morphed all too readily into arousal; eliciting a response entirely disproportionate to the minor stimulation he had received. He was trapped beneath Trailbreaker's greater bulk, his hands pinned to the berth above his helm, Trailbreaker's faceplate scant inches from his own, an awkward position that _should_ have left him feeling utterly ridiculous, but instead he was intensely, undeniably _revved_.

He squirmed a little, flexing his wrists to test Trailbreaker's grip. It seemed solid. "You gonna let me go?" he whispered, his vocalizer crackling with static.

Trailbreaker made a show of considering it. "Hmmm, I dunno…" he said with mock thoughtfulness, "I kind of like you right where I have you." He grinned teasingly. "Judging from how hot you're getting, I'm guessing you don't really mind."

"I'm not _that_ hot," he fibbed. His internal cooling fans chose that moment to switch on, blatantly contradicting his claim.

Trailbreaker laughed out loud. "Note to self:" he said again, "Surprise Wheeljack more often."

"…autonomic response…perfectly normal…" he grumbled sheepishly.

"I like it," Trailbreaker said, giving a playful wiggle that sent little shocks of pleasure through Wheeljack's overexcited sensor nodes, "You getting all heated up for me."

"You gonna do something about it?" he asked huskily.

"Yeah," Trailbreaker replied in a voice even deeper than usual, his optics flaring brightly. He leaned in close, his lip components brushing against Wheeljack's vocal indicator as he whispered into his audial, "I'm gonna overload you so hard your circuits fry."

The sheer _promise_ in his tone made Wheeljack's core temperature spike, made him groan with pure, unabashed _need_. His engine gave an involuntary rev, his hands tightening around Trailbreaker's, interlacing their fingers.

Trailbreaker chuckled, scraping his lip components across Wheeljack's neck cables as he shifted against him, grinding their plating and revving his engine in return.

Wheeljack couldn't recall ever being so wound up by a mere handful of touches, not even during his first interface, when every sensation had seemed new and overwhelming. Trailbreaker couldn't possibly be anywhere _near_ as close to overload as he was, but there was nothing Wheeljack could do about it. Even if he'd had the use of his hands, their inherent sensitivity would cause any attempt to stimulate Trailbreaker with them to backfire, sending him into overload all the sooner. If he employed his energy field, Trailbreaker would undoubtedly do the same, with similar results.

He had to do something, and _quickly,_ or risk leaving his partner unsatisfied. The heat between them was steadily increasing, and the way Trailbreaker was moving against him was setting off a rising cascade of pleasure as sensor nodes throughout Wheeljack's frame reported back every shift and grind –

"No fields," he whispered urgently, the static in his vocalizer nearly drowning out the words, "I won't last."

Trailbreaker paused in his movements. "You're _that_ close?" he rumbled, his optics flashing.

Wheeljack nodded, panting through his intakes in a futile attempt to keep his skyrocketing core temperature in check. If Trailbreaker held back, he might be able to hold off his overload a little longer, long enough to –

Trailbreaker grinned wickedly. "_Perfect_," he said, extending his energy field.

Wheeljack's world went white.

x.x.x.x.x

He onlined his optics a few kliks later to find Trailbreaker grinning down at him.

"Welcome back," Trailbreaker said, sounding just a tiny bit smug.

"What…what happened?"

"I offlined you again," Trailbreaker said proudly. "Told you I'd fry your circuits."

He stared at him in dismay. "But you didn't –"

"Oh, I _did_," Trailbreaker replied emphatically. "And _how!_ That was the hottest thing I've ever _seen_."

"But I didn't –"

"You did," Trailbreaker said, grinning. "When you went off, your field went _crazy_. Your vocalizer fritzed. It was _amazing_."

Dubiously, he accessed his memory files to verify Trailbreaker's claim. He dimly recalled Trailbreaker's energy field enveloping him, setting his circuitry aflame, triggering an explosion of ecstasy, and then –

A slow shudder ran through him. Trailbreaker had been telling the truth.

Trailbreaker laughed at his reaction. "You believe me now?" he snickered.

"Yeah," he said. "Wow. I never overloaded like _that_ before."

Trailbreaker grinned, his optics lighting with desire. "Keep talking like that and you will again – _soon_."

The thought of testing that promise was more than a little tempting, but then Wheeljack remembered something else. "What about Hound and Mirage?" he asked. "Aren't we supposed to be meeting them?"

"I think we've got time," Trailbreaker said. "If I know Hound, they're doing the same thing right now."

"What about your energy levels?" he asked.

"Back to optimal," Trailbreaker replied with a grin. "I won't tell Ratchet if you don't."

"Deal," he said.

"What about you?" Trailbreaker asked. "You feeling okay?"

"Fine," he said. "Pretty good, in fact."

Trailbreaker's grin widened, "You wanna go again?"

He was about to activate his vocalizer to respond when Trailbreaker suddenly stiffened. "Aw, _scrap_," he said.

"What?"

"It's Hound," Trailbreaker said resignedly, levering off of him. "He just pinged me."

Wheeljack sat up as Trailbreaker rose from the berth and made his way to the door. He'd barely gone two strides when someone – Hound, presumably, began knocking loudly. Wheeljack got hastily to his feet, not wanting to be discovered lounging in the berth. He glanced down at himself nervously, praying to Primus he didn't look too…debauched.

"All right, I'm _coming_, sheesh, give me an astrosecond," Trailbreaker muttered, activating the panel that controlled the door's mechanism.

The door slid open, catching Hound in mid-knock. He smiled broadly at the sight of his friend. "Hey, 'Breaker," he said cheekily, his optics bright with mischief. "Hope I'm not interrupting anything!"

Mirage, who was standing just behind him, gave him a gentle swat. "Behave," he chided mildly.

"Hi, Mirage," Trailbreaker greeted him gratefully. "Better listen to him, Hound," he added, smirking at his friend. "Wouldn't wanna torque him off; otherwise it'll be self-service city for you."

"Aw, Mirage wouldn't do that to me, would ya, 'Raj?" Hound said confidently, slipping an arm around his lover's waist components.

"I might," Mirage replied dryly. Ignoring Hound's squeak of protest, he smiled graciously at Trailbreaker. "Good morning, Trailbreaker, Wheeljack," he said with a cordial nod to each, "Good to see you again."

"You too, Mirage," Wheeljack replied. "Morning, Hound."

"Hey, Wheeljack," Hound greeted him, evidently having recovered from his brief bout of indignation. "You two ready to go?" he asked. "I thought we'd stop in the common room for some energon before we set out."

"Sounds good to me," Trailbreaker replied.

"I'm game," Wheeljack agreed.

x.x.x.x.x

The morning rush was over, making finding a table in the common room large enough to seat the four of them a relatively simple task. A few 'Bots were present, trickling in and out sporadically, but the majority of the tables stood empty, and the line at the energon dispenser was mercifully short.

Once they were all settled with cubes in hand, Hound spoke up. "Bet you two are wondering where we're going today – I've got it all planned out," he said proudly.

"The fish hatchery, right?" Trailbreaker replied blithely, taking a sip of energon from his cube.

Hound wilted. "You knew? Who told you?"

Trailbreaker looked at Wheeljack; Wheeljack looked at Mirage.

Hound turned to look at his lover with a wounded expression. "You told them?"

"I couldn't help it," Mirage replied coyly, hiding a smile. "I was so excited about it, it just slipped out. I'm sorry."

"That's okay," Hound said, smiling fondly at him. "I forgive you."

"Probably just as well," Trailbreaker added with a chuckle, casting a playful glance in Wheeljack's direction. "Wheeljack's not a big fan of surprises."

"Really? Why not?" Hound asked, looking at him curiously. Mirage seemed intrigued, too.

"…I like them sometimes," he muttered sheepishly. Trailbreaker chuckled, giving him a playful nudge.

"So, what do you think?" Hound asked eagerly, turning back to their original topic. "I have everything all set up – I contacted the humans that work at the hatchery, and one of them promised to give us private tour! He said this was the best time of year to go; the salmon are spawning –"

"We get to see that?" Trailbreaker interrupted, sounding almost as excited as Hound.

Hound nodded enthusiastically, "And the sturgeon, and the trout, and the fingerlings – those're baby fish," he added in an aside to Mirage and Wheeljack, "We'll get to feed them, maybe even help tag them!"

"_Wow_," Trailbreaker said, impressed. "Way to go, Hound!"

"Aw, it was easy," Hound replied, preening under the praise. "All I did was ask 'em nice –"

"Pardon me," a cultured voice broke in, "but may I intrude on you for a moment?"

As one, the four Autobots looked up to find Perceptor standing next to their table. "Good morning," the scientist said politely, nodding to each in turn. His gaze skittered past Mirage, finally settling on Hound. "I couldn't help overhearing," he began, faltered, shook his helm and tried again, "That is, I heard you talking about going to a fish hatchery? Is that correct?"

"That's right," Hound said brightly. "Bonneville Fish Hatchery; the four of us are going there today."

"I wish I'd known; I would have liked to join you," Perceptor replied. "Regrettably, I cannot today, I'm assigned to duty this morning – but I wonder if I might trouble you with a small request?"

"Sure, Perceptor," Hound said agreeably, "What can we do for you?"

"I would like very much to go to the hatchery myself when my schedule permits," Perceptor said. "Do you think you could ask your human contact there if they would be amenable to a future visit? And perhaps…take a few image captures for me?"

"Absolutely," Hound replied with a smile. "I'm sure to be taking lots anyway, I don't mind making copies for you. I'll even share my data files with you when we get back."

Perceptor beamed, clearly delighted. "Thank you very much; I sincerely appreciate it."

"It's the least I can do," Hound replied, a faint glint of mischief lurking in his optics. "I'll bring them by first thing tomorrow morning."

"Ah…excellent," Perceptor said, looking mildly discomfited. "Thank you again. I hope you all enjoy your, ah, outing."

Wheeljack watched with bemusement as the scientist departed. He understood why Perceptor would be interested, but he was puzzled by the scientist's demeanor. He'd never known Perceptor to be embarrassed about making a request that would expand his knowledge of Earth – why did he seem so uncomfortable now?

Hound chuckled quietly. "Poor Perceptor," he said, "He must hate us."

Trailbreaker barked a laugh; Mirage looked vaguely sheepish. Wheeljack was just confused.

"Us?" he asked. "Why? What'd we do?"

"Not you, _us_," Hound said, tilting his helm toward Mirage. He grinned teasingly, "Did you see that, 'Raj? Couldn't even look you in the optic. That's what you get for makin' so much noise."

"Perceptor's quarters are right next door to Hound's," Trailbreaker explained _sotto voce_, leaning in close to murmur into Wheeljack's audial.

"Oh," he said, catching on.

Hound laughed at his expression, which probably looked a lot like Perceptor's had.

"I don't think _I'm_ the one he heard this time, Hound," Mirage informed him primly. "The next time you get the urge to howl like your namesake, you should at least _warn_ me."

Hound gave an indignant squawk; Trailbreaker laughed out loud. "I know _that_ sound!" he crowed. "He's right Hound; you get _loud_ when you're enjoying yourself."

"You're one to talk, 'Breaker," Hound retorted, turning to Wheeljack, "You wanna hear _loud?_ Try grabbing his communications array right when he overloads – he'll blow out your audials!"

Wheeljack's vocal indicators flashed wordlessly. Trailbreaker sputtered, his vocalizer producing an outraged buzzing noise, "That happened _one_ time –!" he protested.

"All right, that's enough, now," Mirage said, raising his hands in a placating gesture, "Let's just agree that we're all loud, and leave it at that."

"Fair enough," Hound agreed. "We all get pretty noisy under the right circumstances."

"Not everyone is loud," Trailbreaker argued. "Wheeljack isn't."

Wheeljack's vocal indicators flickered again as three pairs of optics abruptly focused on him.

"Wow, really?" Hound asked, his optics bright with curiosity. "Not even when you –" he broke off abruptly with a soft grunt, having been subjected to a none-too-gentle nudge from Mirage.

"I knew a mech in the Towers who was like that," Mirage said smoothly, as if he hadn't just elbowed his lover, "It's not that unusual." He nodded to Wheeljack, "Please forgive my assumption; I'd forgotten some mechs aren't quite so…vocal. I meant no offense."

"None taken," he replied with an awkward shrug.

"We should probably get going," Trailbreaker suggested nervously. "We don't want to be late."

"I agree," Mirage said. Hound looked like he wanted to add something, but Mirage quelled him with a warning look.

They got to their feet, Trailbreaker and Hound dispersing their empty cubes. Wheeljack had only consumed half of his; he subspaced the rest for later. Mirage did the same.

They'd started towards the exit when Mirage suddenly paused. "I need to stop in my quarters for a klik," he announced. "I'll meet you at the entrance."

"All right, 'Raj," Hound replied with a knowing grin. "We'll see you there."

As Mirage left them, Wheeljack abruptly recalled the spy's earlier suggestion about the water skis. They'd been one of his more successful inventions; at Prime's request he'd outfitted every 'Bot on the _Ark_ with them, but it had been a while since they'd had any call to use them. It'd probably be a good idea to bring his tools along, just in case the upgrades malfunctioned. "I need to stop in my lab," he said. "I'll catch up with you, too."

Trailbreaker and Hound turned to look at him in surprise, even though Mirage had just made a similar statement. Neither offered any objection. Hound looked just a tiny bit gleeful, casting a quick glance back and forth between them; Trailbreaker looked uneasy. He stepped in a bit closer, murmuring in a hasty undertone, "Is everything okay?"

"Fine," he said. "I just want to grab some of my tools, just in case."

"I'm sorry about before," Trailbreaker said in the same hushed tone. "I didn't mean to say that; my vocalizer got ahead of my processor."

"It's okay," he said with a shrug. It had been a little embarrassing, but he hadn't been all that put out by it. Compared to some of the things Hound had said, Trailbreaker's inadvertent over-disclosure had seemed pretty tame.

"Sometimes when I'm joking around with Hound, I get carried away," Trailbreaker persisted. "I just…I just didn't _think_. I'm really sorry."

"I'm not mad," he said, bewildered by Trailbreaker's sudden contrition. Did Trailbreaker think he was really that uptight?

"Is everything all right?" Hound called.

"Fine," he called back, holding Trailbreaker's optics. "I'll be right there; go on ahead without me."

"See you in a klik," Hound replied blithely. As Wheeljack turned to leave, he heard him add, "C'mon, 'Breaker, get the lead out! We gotta roll!"

He headed back down the corridor toward his lab, feeling vaguely troubled by Trailbreaker's reaction, and all too aware of his worried gaze resting on his backstrut as he departed.

x.x.x.x.x

As promised, Hound and Trailbreaker were waiting at the entrance when he arrived. Mirage was still absent. They looked up at his approach with the air of two mechs who'd been interrupted in the midst of a conversation, but greeted him warmly all the same.

"Mirage isn't back yet?" he asked.

"I'm here," came the quiet reply from the corridor behind him. As they turned toward the sound, Mirage appeared – literally out of thin air. He'd been using his electro-disruptor.

Hound frowned faintly, but after a glance at Wheeljack and Trailbreaker he said, "Well, let's get going; we've got a bit of a drive ahead of us, and we don't want to be late. Not all of us were built for speed," he added self-deprecatingly, casting a teasing glance at Trailbreaker.

They transformed and rolled out.

Hound took the lead, Mirage falling in behind him. Wheeljack followed Mirage, with Trailbreaker bringing up the rear. It was a defensive formation, placing the mechs with greater endurance in a position to defend their speedier but less resilient compatriots, one they fell into instinctively without need for discussion. Even on a leisure outing, old habits died hard. Since Hound was the only one who knew where they were going, the formation also made good old-fashioned sense.

They had driven in silence for roughly a breem when Hound spoke over an open comm channel, _*All right, 'Raj,*_ he said. _*Out with it; what's wrong?*_

Wheeljack was startled; Mirage looked perfectly fine to him. He'd been on the spy's bumper the whole time, and hadn't noticed any indication of mechanical trouble – had Hound spotted some problem he'd overlooked?

_*It's nothing,*_ Mirage replied after a brief pause.

_*It's not nothing if it's got you hiding again,*_ Hound disputed. _*You were fine this morning; did something happen?*_

Mirage didn't respond immediately. Trailbreaker's deep voice came over the comm. _*You two can take this to a private line, if you want,*_ he volunteered gently.

_*Thank you, Trailbreaker,*_ Mirage said, _*I appreciate the offer, but I don't mind if you and Wheeljack hear. In fact, I…I think I'd like your opinions.*_

_*Our opinions on what?*_ Wheeljack asked.

_*What happened, 'Raj?*_ Hound asked with concern.

_*When I was on my way back to meet you three, I ran into Cliffjumper,*_ Mirage began hesitantly.

_*Don't tell me he's started up with that 'traitor' slag again,*_ Hound interrupted with a growl. _*That little punk; I oughta dent his plating –*_

_*It's all right, Hound,*_ Mirage said soothingly, _*It wasn't like that. Actually he was very nice to me, at least at first. I think he was trying to be friendly; I ran into him in the hall, and he stopped to talk to me. I think…he really _wanted_ to talk to me.*_

_*So what was the problem?*_ Trailbreaker asked, voicing the question on all their CPUs.

_*The problem was I didn't have _time_ to talk,*_ Mirage replied. _*I knew you three were waiting for me, so when he paused for a moment, I cut in and said I couldn't talk to him right then, that I was in a hurry. I tried to be polite about it, but...he got angry.*_

_*How angry?*_ Hound inquired cautiously.

_*…he called me a snooty Towers brat,*_ Mirage admitted reluctantly. _*Said I thought I was too good to waste my time talking to a mech like him, and then stormed off.*_

For a moment they were all too stunned to speak. Hound recovered first. _*That – that's _stupid_ – you had plans, we were all waiting for you!*_

_*Cliffjumper always was a bit of a hothead,*_ Trailbreaker said.

_*So you don't think it's true that I'm…snooty?*_ Mirage asked.

_*You're sophisticated, sure,*_ Hound replied, _*but you don't act like you're better than the rest of us; Tracks and Sunstreaker are way worse than you are.*_

_*You were perfectly polite to him,*_ Trailbreaker opined. _*You're polite to everyone – actually, that's probably what set him off; if you had a reputation for being rude or violent like Tracks or Sunstreaker, he'd have never mouthed off to you like that in the first place. He'd have been too scared to.*_

_*What about you, Wheeljack?*_ Mirage asked, noting his silence. _*Do you think I'm…like that?*_

_*Not at all,*_ he said sincerely. _*I worked with a couple Towers mechs back on Cybertron; believe me, you're _nothing_ like them. You're…really nice.*_

_*Cliffjumper's an aft,*_ Hound said, less diplomatically. _*He's got a mouth about three sizes too big for him.*_

They had to laugh at that.

x.x.x.x.x

They arrived at their destination approximately half a joor later.

They'd passed the time with amiable chatter, joking back and forth over their comms. By the time they pulled into the near-deserted parking lot, they were all in good spirits.

There was only one human present, a dark-haired male who appeared older than Spike, but a little younger than Sparkplug. He observed their arrival with obvious curiosity; when they transformed, he broke into a grin that lit up his whole face. "Good morning!" he greeted them brightly. "Welcome to Bonneville Fish Hatchery! I'm Brad Callahan; which one of you is Hound?"

"I am," Hound replied, stepping forward a pace. "Nice to meet you, Brad. Are you the one I spoke to earlier? I thought he said his name was – "

"Tom," Brad finished for him. "Tom's my supervisor; he couldn't make it in today," Brad said. "It's killing him to miss out on meeting you, but he's got a really bad case of the flu, so he had no choice but to turn you over to one of us." His grin widened. "We had a lottery to choose who would get to be your guide; I won. My colleagues all hate me now," he reported gleefully.

"Why would they hate you?" Mirage asked, frowning faintly.

"Because I get to meet _you!_" Brad gushed. "It's a huge honor – I'm actually shaking, here! What are your names, by the way?" he asked excitedly.

"I'm Hound, but you knew that," Hound said. "This is Trailbreaker, Wheeljack, and Mirage," he continued, gesturing to each in turn.

"Nice to meet you," Trailbreaker said with a smile.

"A pleasure," said Mirage.

Wheeljack waved, "How's it going?"

"Wow," Brad breathed, shaking his head in awe. He stared at them in wonderment for another moment, then seemed to shake himself. "Well, enough gawking; are you ready to see the hatchery?"

"You bet we are," Hound replied eagerly, "and you can tell Tom that he may not have missed his chance after all. One of our scientists wanted to come too, but he couldn't make it today. He wanted me to ask if he might be allowed to pay you a visit some other time."

Brad's smile couldn't get any wider, it was already threatening to overtake his face, but he nodded enthusiastically. "He'll be _thrilled_ to hear that! Tell your friend to contact him; we'll make the arrangements just like we did for you."

"What sort of arrangements?" Wheeljack asked. He'd been looking around while the others talked, taking in the tidy collection of white-painted buildings and well-kept grounds. The parking lot was more than spacious enough to accommodate them, but he was certain they would be too large to enter the human-sized structures, at least not in the conventional way.

"Well, you're too big to go in the gift shop, but it's closed for the winter anyway," Brad replied with a grin. "Tom put together an assortment of souvenirs for you, though. He figured you wouldn't have much use for t-shirts or caps, but he said he'd found some bumper stickers and postcards he thought you might like."

"Awesome," Hound said happily.

"As for the tour itself, you may have noticed no one else is around," Brad continued. "We figured you'd have an easier time if you didn't have to fight our usual crowds, so we've closed the hatchery for the day. Since this is a working facility, most of the buildings were designed to be accessible to trucks and large equipment, so your size shouldn't pose much of a problem. The tour will basically be one big circle, starting with the trout ponds and the sturgeon viewing center, then on up to the dam and the fish ladder, where you'll get a chance to see the salmon making their way upriver to spawn. You've come at a great time; we're in the height of spawning season right now."

Hound exchanged glances with Trailbreaker. Both looked excited and pleased by the proposed tour.

"We really appreciate you going to all this trouble," Hound said. Trailbreaker nodded in agreement.

"It's our pleasure," Brad replied with a smile. "We're delighted to have you."

"Is it all right if I take image captures?" Hound asked hopefully.

"You mean pictures?" Brad asked. Hound nodded. "Only if you send us copies," he replied with a wink. "Ready to get started?"

"Absolutely," Trailbreaker said enthusiastically. "Let's roll!"

Hound nodded and transformed, then addressed the wide-eyed human, "Hop in, Brad," he said cheerfully. "It beats walking!"

The human eagerly complied. "Wait'll my colleagues hear about this," he said, looking around excitedly. "Hell, wait'll my _wife_ hears about this!"

x.x.x.x.x

With Hound once more taking the lead, the four Autobots made their way back out onto the roadway. In-between giving directions, Brad deluged Hound with a flood of questions, which Hound shared with the others via an open comm link. Though clad in the customary jeans and flannel worn by most of the humans in the region, there was no questioning Brad's scientific background; his queries ran the gamut from how they were able to see in their alt modes to what it was like to travel in deep space, to whether they had fish back on Cybertron.

After roughly a quarter of a breem, Brad paused in his questioning and instructed them to pull up alongside a trio of large ponds. "This is where the rainbow trout are kept," he said. "We don't raise trout for distribution; they're here solely for viewing purposes. I've got some change for the vending machines, if you'd like to feed them."

"I would!" Trailbreaker said eagerly, transforming immediately. Wheeljack and Mirage followed suit. Hound grumbled good-naturedly, forced to wait for his passenger to disembark before he could do the same.

Brad made his way briskly to the nearer of the two vending machines, digging in his pocket for the coins he needed to operate it. He soon had a small handful of food, which he promptly transferred into Hound and Trailbreaker's large outstretched palms, laughing at how pitifully tiny his offering looked by comparison, and at the way Trailbreaker and Hound endeavored to sprinkle the miniscule particles out over the water with exaggerated care, exclaiming in delight as the fish rose up to gobble the morsels.

Amused by the display, Wheeljack glanced over at Mirage to gauge his reaction. He'd expected the noblemech to look bored, but Mirage appeared quite content, watching Hound with a fond, indulgent smile. His expression surprised Wheeljack; he couldn't recall ever seeing Mirage looking so _happy_.

"That pond over there is where the white sturgeon are housed," Brad was saying. "That big building next to it is the Sturgeon Viewing Center – we'll go there so you can get a better look at them."

Leading the way, the human continued as they fell in behind him, "Sturgeon are cartilaginous fish, like sharks," he said. "That means they have no bones. They're considered "prehistoric" because they've been around since the Jurassic period – they look pretty much the same today as they did when the dinosaurs walked the Earth."

"They're like dinosaurs?" Wheeljack asked, intrigued.

"We know about dinosaurs," Hound chimed in. "We found some old bones in our base, and one of our human friends took me to the natural history museum afterward so we could learn more about them."

"Wheeljack liked them so much he decided to make a few of his own," Trailbreaker said, grinning. "Robots like us, only they turn into dinosaurs instead of cars or trucks. We call them the Dinobots."

Brad turned to stare at Wheeljack. "You built robot _dinosaurs?_" he asked incredulously.

"Yeah," he said, flattered by the way the human was regarding him with unabashed awe. "Five of them: Grimlock, Slag, Snarl, Swoop and Sludge."

"Wow," Brad said, "What I wouldn't give to meet _them!_ They must be huge!"

"They're big, all right," Hound said, laughing. "And dangerous! They caused a lot of damage the first time Wheeljack activated them, and a fair bit since! They're not too bright."

"…I wanted them to be authentic," Wheeljack muttered with a sheepish shrug.

"The Dinobots are great," Trailbreaker said loyally, glaring at his friend. "They've saved our skidplates more than once."

"Trailbreaker's right," Mirage said, cutting off Hound's retort. "The Dinobots are valuable allies. We're lucky to have them on our side."

"I never thought of building an _aquatic_ Dinobot," Wheeljack mused. "I'd really like to see what these sturgeon look like."

"Then follow me," Brad said with a smile.

They approached the building Brad had indicated. The entrance was designed to be large enough to admit an Earth vehicle, but proved to be a bit low-ceilinged for an Autobot in root mode. It was, however, big enough to afford them a clear view of the viewing windows inside without needing to enter.

As they stood observing the fish – which were indeed massive and prehistoric-looking – Wheeljack's thoughts drifted back to the events of the previous day. Before the Dinobots had been damaged, he'd sworn to himself that he'd look in on them, make sure they were all right. With all that had happened since, he had more reason than ever to do so, but the recent cybertonium crisis and ensuing repairs had prevented him from keeping his promise. He set an internal reminder for later that evening to ensure he wouldn't forget again. He owed them a visit.

"Incredible," Hound was saying, "Look at that one, 'Breaker – he's even longer than my alt mode!"

"That's Herman," Brad volunteered. "He's the oldest sturgeon in the hatchery. He's been alive for more than fifty years, and he's nearly ten feet long."

"Aw, just a baby," Hound cooed, studying the massive fish with rapt fascination.

"Uh…actually, that's pretty old, by Earth standards," Brad said. "Heck, he's older than me! He'll probably be around long after I'm gone, too – sturgeon can live up to a hundred years; the average lifespan of a human is more like sixty-five or seventy."

Wheeljack stared at him, taken aback by his matter-of-fact tone. Brad was younger than Sparkplug, yet he predicted he wouldn't be alive fifty Earth years from now?

_Fifty years,_ he thought bleakly. That was all Sparkplug had left to him? Little more than half a vorn?

_Maybe less_, he thought. Brad had said the _average_ human; some humans might fall above or below that average. Wheeljack abruptly recalled that Sparkplug had recently attended a funeral for a friend of his – had that friend been close to Sparkplug in age?

Wheeljack had acted to save Sparkplug from the Decepticons on more than one occasion, each time fearing he might lose his friend forever, painfully aware of the dire consequences should he fail. Each time, he'd rejoiced in his success, relieved and secure in the knowledge that Sparkplug was safe.

But Sparkplug _wasn't_ safe, not from the slow march of time. No invention or timely action on Wheeljack's part could spare him from _that_ fate. It was distressing, to realize that no matter what he did, one day all too soon Sparkplug would be gone, felled by something as _inconsequential_ as time. The very thought left Wheeljack feeling sad and helpless.

He'd have to spend more time with Sparkplug, too. He might have precious little left.

x.x.x.x.x

Having bid farewell to Herman the sturgeon, they headed back outside, once more transforming and taking to the road. Brad guided them north to what he called the fish ladder, explaining that it wasn't so much a _ladder_ as a staircase, a series of man-made pools and waterfalls designed to allow the salmon to get around the dam, making it easier for them to travel upstream without exhausting themselves.

"It also allows us to count them and observe their condition," Brad continued as they transformed and followed him on foot. "Plus we get to see them when they're all grown up! We measure and tag them when they're fingerlings, roughly a year old – millions every year, all within a few months, and all by hand. Afterward they're released into the wild. It's exhausting work, but I love it."

"Have you ever considered automating?" Wheeljack asked, seizing gratefully upon a topic that would take his CPU off Sparkplug's inevitable demise. "Using a machine would make the process a lot more efficient."

"I'm not sure how you could do that without anesthetizing the fish," Brad replied hesitantly. "That'd raise the mortality rate even more than human handling does." He considered for a moment. "It's not really my area of expertise…but I suppose it _might_ be possible."

"I could probably come up with something," Wheeljack offered. "What?" he asked, noticing Hound's horrified expression. Even Mirage looked alarmed, though he was quicker to hide his reaction.

Brad looked confused, glancing back and forth between them.

"Never mind," Wheeljack muttered. Trailbreaker frowned faintly; Hound looked relieved.

"Okaaaay," Brad said slowly. "Well, uh…here's the ladder! You can move a bit closer, but I think because of your size it would probably be better if you took turns and went two at a time. Who wants to go first?"

"Me!" Hound said eagerly, grinning at Mirage, who smiled back. Hound picked his way carefully to the railing, wary of disturbing the fish, and peered down into the rushing water.

Trailbreaker hesitated, clearly torn. He glanced longingly at the water and Hound, then back to the others, his gaze lingering on Wheeljack before turning to Mirage. He opened his mouth to speak, but Mirage spoke first.

"Go ahead, Trailbreaker," Mirage said. "I know this trip means a lot to you and Hound; you two should be the ones to go first."

Trailbreaker glanced uncertainly at his friend, then back to Wheeljack.

"Mirage is right," Wheeljack said in response to his inquiring look. "Go on; I don't mind waiting."

"C'mon, 'Breaker!" Hound called from the rail. "Check it out – there're _hundreds_ of them!"

Trailbreaker moved to join him, and Brad followed, taking up a position alongside them at the rail, ready to answer any questions they might have.

"Hound can be a bit thoughtless sometimes," Mirage murmured, too quietly for the others to hear. "He means well, but he doesn't always realize what he's saying."

Wheeljack shrugged. "No big deal. I know my track record isn't great."

They lapsed back into silence, watching the two mechs huddled shoulder-to-shoulder exclaiming over the fish, the human laughing and pointing out into the water. After a few kliks, Wheeljack glanced over at Mirage.

He was smiling again, that same soft, contented smile.

"You're probably wondering what a Towers mech like me sees in a mech like Hound," Mirage said softly, his optics never leaving his lover.

Wheeljack started; he _had_ wondered, back when he'd first heard the two were seeing each other. He'd assumed, perhaps uncharitably, that Mirage was simply slumming – he'd had enough contact with the Towers to know such dalliances often occurred for precisely that reason. It was an old, familiar story – a noblemech would swan in, drawn by the lure of a new, quasi-forbidden experience, sweep some poor common mech off his feet in a whirlwind romance, and then leave him spark-broken once the novelty wore off. Mirage had never struck him as the type to do that sort of thing, but Wheeljack had wondered about his motives all the same.

Of course he'd never actually say that out loud. "Hound's a good mech," he replied. "He's nice, fun to be around. Everyone likes him; why wouldn't you?"

"I know what you're thinking," Mirage said. "I _lived_ in the Towers, remember. I saw the sort of things that went on there. But I never indulged in that…particular practice. It always struck me as cruel."

"I never said –" he protested.

"It's all right," Mirage cut him off, "I don't blame you for thinking it; I'm sure a lot of the others are, too. It would be naïve not to. But that's not how it is with Hound and I."

Wheeljack looked at him, taking in Mirage's thoughtful expression, the quiet sincerity of his tone.

"You're right, of course," Mirage said softly. "Hound _is_ nice to everyone. At first, I thought that's all it was. I wasn't special. It didn't _mean_ anything."

Mirage turned his helm, meeting his optics for the first time. "But I wanted it to," he said quietly.

"I've always hated this war," Mirage continued, turning back to look at Hound again. "I joined the Autobots because I felt I had no choice; I couldn't stand by and allow other mechs risk their sparks on my behalf. But I never really felt like I belonged there. I was a Towers mech and I disapproved of the conflict. No one talked to me."

"But Hound _did_ talk to me," Mirage said, "and not just about the war. He talked about Earth, about himself, his friends, his life – and he _listened_ when I talked about mine, about the Towers, and how much I missed Cybertron…"

"I was prepared to be content with that," Mirage said. "It was enough that someone cared enough to listen to me, to talk to me sometimes. I told myself I didn't _need_ more. Hound was nice to everyone; I should feel grateful just to be included in that number."

"Then one night he came to visit me in my quarters," Mirage said. "It was very late, but he said he needed to talk to me, that it couldn't wait. So I let him in." A small smile curved his lip components. "He was so _nervous_. I couldn't believe it. I'd seen him face down Decepticons without the slightest hesitation, but it had taken all the courage he could muster just to visit me that night. He was certain I would reject him, when I'd wanted him all this time."

Wheeljack's optics widened in surprise. _He loves him,_ he thought. How had he not seen it before?

"I still miss Cybertron," Mirage said, "but I don't hate the war anymore. If not for this war, I'd never have met him. I'd have lived out my entire existence in the Towers, never realizing I wasn't really alive at all." He gazed fondly at his lover for a moment, then added, "Hound loves it here on Earth; it makes him happy. And seeing him happy…makes _me_ happy. Happier than I've ever been."

Wheeljack stared at him, speechless, overwhelmed by the quiet depth of emotion the normally-reserved mech had chosen to share with him. When he recovered the use of his vocalizer an astrosecond later, he blurted out the first thought that popped into his CPU.

"Why are you telling me all this?" he asked.

"You're seeing Trailbreaker," Mirage replied simply, "and I thought you'd like to know. Maybe you'll tell him, and then he'll know he doesn't have to worry about Hound."

"I don't think he's worried about that," Wheeljack said, "about you hurting Hound, I mean. He's never said anything to suggest he thought you might." _That was me,_ he thought wryly.

"I know it's hard for him, all the same," Mirage said. "It's hard for both of us, to share him. It's hard for Hound, always having to choose between us, feeling guilty no matter what choice he makes."

At that moment Hound said something, his words drowned out by the rushing water, and Trailbreaker threw back his helm and laughed, a deep, hearty laugh of such obvious enjoyment it would warm any spark to hear it. Wheeljack's own spark gave an odd little _pulse_ at the sound, at the sheer delight in Trailbreaker's voice and posture.

"Sometimes I almost envy him," Mirage said quietly. "Envy _them_."

Wheeljack looked at him in surprise.

"Don't misunderstand," Mirage said quickly. "I know they've interfaced; it's not that. It's just…Hound is so _comfortable_ with Trailbreaker."

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"Hound relaxes when he's with Trailbreaker," Mirage said. "When they're together, he's more himself than he is with anyone else. He's not like that with me, not yet. He's…careful."

"Careful?" Wheeljack asked.

"Somewhere he picked up the notion that Towers mechs are fragile," Mirage said wryly. "It's true we have lighter plating, but we're not _delicate_. We won't break from a little rough handling."

Wheeljack cocked his helm, giving the spy a quizzical look.

"He holds back when we're together," Mirage explained. "He's afraid of hurting me." He laughed softly, "Not that I mind being pampered and cherished, but it'd be nice every once in a while to be shoved up against a wall and taken fast and hard, you know? Just for variety."

"Oh," Wheeljack said, his circuits heating in embarrassment.

"Do you think you could tell Trailbreaker that?" Mirage asked.

"Trailbreaker? Why?" he asked.

"Because he'll tell Hound," Mirage replied, as if it were obvious.

"Why not just tell him yourself?" he asked, bewildered.

"I don't want to hurt his feelings," Mirage said. "If it comes from Trailbreaker, it will sound like advice rather than a complaint."

"Oh," he said. He wasn't sure he followed the logic of that conclusion, but he was willing to take Mirage at his word. "I'll tell him, if that's what you want."

"I'd appreciate it," Mirage said with a smile. "And I'd be happy to return the favor, if you like. Is there something you want Trailbreaker to do that he doesn't? Or something he does that you'd rather he didn't?"

"…not really," he replied haltingly, uncomfortable with the unexpected turn in the conversation. "He's, um…he's fine."

"You're lucky," Mirage said. He fell silent for a moment, then added, "Forgive me for asking, but…does he ever talk about Hound? About what he likes?"

Wheeljack shifted his weight uneasily, fairly certain Mirage wasn't talking about nature, or any of Hound's other casual interests. "He, uh…he once said Hound likes to use his mouth," he volunteered reluctantly.

"His _mouth?_" Mirage asked, regarding him with curiosity.

"Yeah," he said. "You know, like the humans do on TV. Trailbreaker, uh, did it to me once, and he said he learned it from Hound."

Mirage nodded in understanding, "I've seen the humans do that," he said. Then he frowned, cocking his helm in confusion. "But you have a mask; how did he –?"

"My neck cables," he muttered, avoiding his gaze.

"Ah," Mirage said, catching on. "I see. And that felt good?"

He shrugged uncomfortably. "Yeah," he said.

"Did he –"

"Raj!" Hound called exuberantly, "You've gotta come see this! They're jumping right out of the water!"

Relieved by Hound's timely interruption, Wheeljack quickly stepped forward to trade places with Trailbreaker at the rail. Mirage did the same, swapping positions with Hound. Brad lingered, pointing out a fish as it leapt from the water, its body forming a gleaming arc in the autumn sunlight. Trailbreaker and Hound dropped back a short distance, still talking animatedly about what they had seen.

Wheeljack was almost pathetically grateful for the human's presence, knowing Mirage would be unlikely to pursue his line of questioning with Brad in earshot. But then Hound called their guide over to ask where the fish went once they got past the dam and whether they would be able to see them spawning, and Brad left to join them, intent on answering Hound's question.

Wheeljack quickly stepped back from the rail and followed him, not wanting to give Mirage another opportunity to exploit their relative privacy. He hadn't been all that interested in the fish, anyway.

Trailbreaker smiled broadly at his approach. "Seen enough already?" he asked.

"Yeah," he said. "It was really neat."

"…further upriver," Brad was saying. "You can take a look if you like, but be careful – spawning salmon attract a lot of predators. I'm not sure eagles or bears would pose much of a threat to you, but it never hurts to be careful."

Hound looked delighted. "We might see eagles or bears there?" he asked.

"Sure," Brad said, smiling. "And after the spawning ends and the salmon start dying off, all the scavengers come out to feed on them, too. You'll see tons of 'em – foxes, raccoons, coyotes – provided you can stand the smell."

Hound's face fell. "The salmon…they all die?"

Brad looked startled. "Well, yeah," he replied. "These are Coho salmon; they undergo major physiological changes when their bodies adapt to living in salt water, so the stress of returning to fresh water and spawning is too much for them. I assumed you knew."

"No," Hound said, shaking his helm sadly. Mirage reached for him, laying a comforting hand on his shoulder-strut. Trailbreaker regarded his friend with obvious sympathy, looking saddened himself.

"I know it sounds tragic," Brad said gently, "but in a way, I think the salmon are kind of noble. They sacrifice their lives for the sake of the next generation, ensuring the survival of the species. Only the strongest and healthiest fish make it to the spawning site, so the offspring they produce are the best of the best."

Hound frowned thoughtfully. "That is kind of noble," he mused. "It sounds like the sort of thing Optimus Prime would do, risk himself to save others." He glanced at Mirage, who nodded, smiling at him encouragingly.

Trailbreaker glanced at Wheeljack, then back at Hound and Mirage. "Yeah," he agreed.

"There are plenty of other species that depend on the salmon for their survival, too," Brad continued, "The bears need to store up a lot of fat before they go into hibernation, and the salmon are so driven to spawn they're easy to catch. Without them to feed on, the bears would have a much harder time finding enough food to survive through the winter."

Hound nodded. "I hadn't thought of that," he said.

"And all the other animals – the eagles and foxes and coyotes and such – depend on them too," Brad said. "When the salmon have a tough year and are less abundant, the species that rely on them as a food source go into a decline, dying of starvation when winter comes along. So it's not just the next generation of salmon they're giving up their lives for – it's the entire ecosystem."

"Wow," Hound said. "So by dying, the salmon keep a lot of other animals alive."

"You got it," Brad said, nodding. "It's the circle of life," he added with a laugh. "But if you still want to see them spawning, I can give you directions to a good spot above the dam."

"I think it would be wrong to disturb them," Mirage said before Hound could offer a reply. "Better to leave them in peace."

Hound glanced at Trailbreaker; they shared a long look. Finally, Trailbreaker nodded. "Let's leave them to it," he said, looking back at Brad. Hound nodded in agreement.

Brad smiled."Well, that pretty much concludes the tour," he said. "If you don't mind giving me a lift back to the hatchery, I'll grab that box of souvenirs Tom put together for you."

Hound brightened noticeably at the reminder. "You bet," he said, transforming. "Climb on in!"

"It's been a real pleasure meeting you all," Brad said as he complied. "I'd be glad to do it again sometime. Tell your friend to get in touch, and if any of you want to come back along with him, you're more than welcome."

"Thank you," Mirage said. "You've been very kind."

"It was really interesting," Wheeljack volunteered. "I learned a lot."

"Me too," Brad replied with a grin as Hound started up his engine. The others transformed, preparing to follow. "I really hope you'll visit us again."

x.x.x.x.x

_*You aren't seriously thinking of putting that thing on yourself,*_ Mirage commed incredulously.

_*Why not?*_ Hound protested. _*They were a gift, and I really liked it there. Didn't you?*_

_*Yes, but –*_

_*Where to now?*_ Trailbreaker asked loudly, interrupting Hound and Mirage's discussion over what to do with the "Bonneville Fish Hatchery" bumper stickers Brad had given them. _*Back to the_ Ark?_*_

_*It's too early for that,*_ Wheeljack said. _*We've still got half a day left. We should make the most of it.*_

_*I agree,*_ Mirage chimed in, abandoning his debate with Hound. _*Oh! I know – why don't we go out on the river? We have those water skis Wheeljack installed; we could try them out again.*_

_*Sounds like fun,*_ Wheeljack said, suppressing a chuckle at Mirage's not-so-impromptu suggestion. _*I always wanted to test their limitations, find out just how maneuverable we can be on them.*_

_*In my case, probably not very,*_ Trailbreaker laughed. _*But I'm willing to give it a try.*_

_*What about the salmon?*_ Hound asked. _*We don't want to disturb them.*_

_*We'll go further upriver, well away from their spawning area,*_ Mirage said reassuringly. _*When we were at the fish ladder, I saw some humans out on the water in the distance. I think if we're far enough away, we won't bother them.*_

_*Well, in that case…what are we waiting for?*_ Hound replied.

x.x.x.x.x

It was a perfect day to be out on the water.

The sun was bright and warm, the water calm, the sky a brilliant blue. Even the humans had sought to take advantage of the balmy weather, enjoying one last day out before winter arrived in earnest. In addition to the four Autobots, the broad river's surface was dotted with boats, jet skis, and the colorful sails of windsurfers.

To Wheeljack's delight, the hydrofoils functioned perfectly, proving just as effective as they'd been in the past. But this time, there was no sense of urgency, no frantic rush to reach their destination before the Decepticons claimed victory. This time, they were free to play.

Hound and Trailbreaker soon discovered they could reach speeds on the water they could never achieve on land; they raced along laughing, giddy with excitement. Mirage, no stranger to speed in his sleek, agile alt mode, was even faster still; caught up in their enthusiasm, he wove in and out between them, edging teasingly close and then zipping away again, only to return and repeat the pattern.

Wheeljack, for his part, had other ideas – ideas inspired by the humans on jet skis performing stunts along the shore. "Hey guys – watch _this!_" he called.

With a short burst of acceleration to gain the necessary momentum and put himself ahead of them, he executed a neat back flip. The others cheered, bobbing in the wake of his landing.

"Do it again!" Trailbreaker called.

"Do a front flip!" Hound suggested.

"I think I could do that," Mirage said, pulling ahead of them. Revving his engine, he darted forward, performing an identical back flip, then reversing and doing a forward flip, coming down amid the enthusiastic cheers of his companions.

_Oh, it's_ on, Wheeljack thought eagerly. He wasn't considered the best stunt driver of the Autobots for nothing – running a series of rapid calculations through his CPU, he shot forward. "Not bad Mirage," he called back, "but can you do _this?_"

Confident of the accuracy of his equations, he initiated an elaborate spin-flip, twisting lengthwise 360 degrees in midair before finally coming down on his skis with a triumphant splash, setting off another round of cheers.

"Very impressive," Mirage called.

"That was awesome!" Hound said.

"Do another one!" Trailbreaker urged.

From the distant shore Wheeljack's audio receptors detected the faint sound of applause; the humans had noticed the four Autobots cavorting on the river. Wheeljack flashed his headlights and flicked his wipers at them in lieu of a bow, playfully revving his engine.

He'd need more speed for his next stunt. He circled around his friends, beeping his horn to get their attention as he tore past them, and once more launched himself into the air.

A roar of applause rose up from the humans on the bank as he performed another spin flip, gleefully flashing his headlights at the others while upside-down. Trailbreaker flashed his own in return.

He completed the first rotation and went for the second, basking in the adulation and the admiration of his peers. He took his attention off his gyros for a split nanoklik to make sure he was still within Trailbreaker's visual range –

He landed on his roof with a fantastic splash, drenching the others in a veritable tidal wave as he went skidding upside-down through the water. He heard Hound's roar of laughter and the dismayed cries of the humans on the shore as he began to sink, feeling the cold water closing over his tires as the river claimed him.

He transformed sheepishly as he sank to the bottom, shaking his helm. _Need to work on that one,_ he thought ruefully, more amused than chagrined by his failure.

_*You all right down there?*_ Trailbreaker commed teasingly over an open line as Wheeljack's feet struck and sank into the silty riverbed. _*I think the humans are getting a little worried.*_

_*Fine,*_ he commed back. _*Must've miscalculated the rotation rate.*_

_*That was one _spectacular_ wipeout,*_ Hound chimed in. _*I think he did it on purpose.*_

_*What's it like down there?*_ Mirage inquired curiously.

The water was deep, and impenetrably dark; at the moment Wheeljack couldn't make out much of anything. He switched on his headlights, illuminating his immediate surroundings. _*Dark,*_ he commed back. _*Looks like there's not much down here but weeds – oh! And fish,*_ he amended as a large school darted past him.

_*Salmon?*_ Hound asked eagerly.

_*You are_ not_ going down there,*_ Mirage informed him sternly. *_Don't even think about it.*_

_*I'm not sure what kind of fish they are,*_ Wheeljack commed back. _*It's kind of hard to see – _yikes!_ Okay, _that's_ definitely a sturgeon. Wow, he's even bigger than Herman! Hey, guys – if I'm not back in five kliks, this thing _ate_ me.*_

_*I said _no_, Hound,*_ Mirage stated firmly over the comm. Wheeljack chuckled, envisioning Mirage endeavoring to restrain his lover in an effort to keep Hound from diving down to join him.

_*I'm coming to get you, Wheeljack,*_ Trailbreaker commed over Hound's indignant protests. _*I've got your position locked in; just sit tight. I'll be there in an astrosecond.*_

_*Aw, no fair,*_ Hound complained. _*How come _he_ gets to go?*_

Glancing up, Wheeljack saw the large, dark form of Trailbreaker descending toward him in root mode. A moment later, Trailbreaker's headlights clicked on, surrounding him in a diffuse halo of light. He drifted down to land beside Wheeljack with a soft thump. _*Hey,*_ he commed over a private line.

_*Hey,*_ Wheeljack replied, meeting his optics. _*You didn't have to come, you know,*_ he said. _*I could have made it out on my own.*_

Trailbreaker grinned. _*Yeah, I know,*_ he said. _*But I knew it'd drive Hound crazy if I did, plus I wanted to see the fish – and you.*_

_*Me?*_ he asked.

_*Yeah,*_ Trailbreaker said, his voice dropping to a softer register. He shifted closer, his chestplate scraping lightly against Wheeljack's. _*That was quite a show you put on up there.*_

_*Yeah?*_ he said, pleased by the compliment.

_*Yeah,*_ Trailbreaker said huskily, running a hand down his arm. _*You looked incredibly hot, showing off like that. My fans kicked in just watching you.*_ His optics flashed, all but devouring Wheeljack with his gaze.

The look of frank, unabashed _lust_ Trailbreaker was giving him made Wheeljack's core temperature spike, forcing him to override the activation of his own cooling fans as his circuits heated with desire. The sensation was a curious contrast to the icy cold of the water, making him shiver.

_*I wanna to throw you down and 'face you right here,*_ Trailbreaker commed heatedly, dipping his helm to mouth Wheeljack's neck cables, his hands moving urgently over his frame.

A low moan escaped him as he arched into Trailbreaker's touch, fighting back the urge to gasp through his intakes, knowing that doing so would only flood his systems with freezing-cold water. In that moment, as risky as it was, Wheeljack wanted nothing more than for Trailbreaker to make good on his claim to ravish him right then and there, to take him in the murky depths of the Colombia River, consequences be damned. Heedless of the risks – or perhaps _because_ of them – Wheeljack reached for him, intent on touching Trailbreaker in return –

_*You two all right down there?*_ Hound commed cheekily, his tone suggesting he knew exactly what they were up to. _*You want us to come down and give you a hand?*_

Trailbreaker pulled back, making an exasperated sound over the private line before responding over the shared frequency, _*No thanks, we're fine. We'll be right out.*_

_*Don't rush on our account,*_ Hound commed back teasingly.

_*Oh, it's all right,*_ Trailbreaker replied airily, grinning slyly at Wheeljack. _*I was just enjoying looking at all the fish down here – it's a real shame you're not here to see them, Hound. Some of them are absolutely huge!*_

_*Don't you_ dare,_ Hound,*_ Mirage's voice broke in, and Trailbreaker roared with laughter. _*I'm not sitting up here alone waiting for you all!*_

Wheeljack chuckled, shaking his helm in amusement.

All in all, it had been a pretty good day.

_Some additional notes on this chapter__: _

_The Bonneville Fish Hatchery is a real place, located in Oregon next to Bonneville Dam on the Columbia River. I've never been there, so I had to rely on photos, videos, literature and the input of my beta (who's visited it IRL) in order to depict it here. I apologize for any mistakes or oversights I may have made in my description. Brad Callahan is an OC, and exists solely in my imagination. Any resemblance to a real person, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Herman the Sturgeon, on the other hand, _is _real, and over 70 years old, but since this fic is set in the '80s, he's only 50. Wheeljack's suggestion of automated fish tagging is also based in reality – in the 80s, tagging was done by hand, it's but now done with machines (mercifully sans explosions.) Finally, some of you may have noticed the shout-out to in this chapter; if you haven't seen "S.O.S. Wheeljack" or "Wheeljack vs Cereal Commercial - Take 3" on YouTube, be sure and check them out – you won't be sorry!_


	27. Abandonment

**Title: **After Atlantis  
**Obligatory Disclaimer:** I don't own Transformers.  
**Warnings: **PTSD angst, references to rape, references to sex.  
**Author's Note: **Woot, new chapter! I was surprised how quickly this one rolled out, although I confess I've been looking forward to writing it. Not many reviews last time – too long? Too boring? Everyone away for the holidays? – but I hope this one regains your attention. The storm's been brewing for a while now; in this chapter it finally breaks. It may be a while before I post the next one, as I'm thinking of taking a break to work on some other fics – the Seekersmut plot bunnies are biting again. Thanks for reading!

**Chapter 27: Abandonment**

Wheeljack, Trailbreaker and Hound escaped from the depths of the river just before dusk, muddy and weary, but in high spirits.

Hound, unable to resist the siren call of the Columbia River and its natural inhabitants, had finally succumbed to Trailbreaker's teasing and dived down to join them. Now all three Autobots were drenched and filthy, trailing fronds of torn water weeds that had gotten caught in their transformation seams and joints during their initial attempt to escape by walking across the bottom.

The veritable jungle of weeds had proved so thick as to be virtually impassable, and in the end Trailbreaker had been forced to deploy his force field, creating a transparent globe around them that they'd pushed along from within, rolling it over the weeds instead of wading through them. It had been tiring, but surprisingly _fun_.

When they stepped out onto the bank over a joor later, laughing at each other's appearance, Mirage was waiting for them, standing on the shore in his root mode, his frame practically vibrating with tension.

"I can't believe you did that, Hound!" he exclaimed as they emerged.

Their laughter died abruptly as they took in his hurt and angry expression. "'Raj," Hound began, but Mirage didn't let him finish.

"Don't _'Raj_ me," he snapped. "I _told_ you not to go down there, and you completely _ignored_ me!"

Wheeljack and Trailbreaker exchanged worried glances; Trailbreaker's colored with a healthy dose of guilt. He'd been the one to goad Hound into joining them at the bottom of the river, in spite of Mirage's objections.

Hound stepped forward, reaching out to lay a comforting hand on Mirage's shoulder-strut, his faceplate stamped with chagrin. "I just wanted to see the fish, 'Raj," he said placatingly.

Mirage angrily shrugged off the touch. "You could have asked Trailbreaker to share his memory files with you, or to take image captures," he replied peevishly. "But no, you had to dive down there and see them for yourself, after I explicitly asked you _not_ to!"

"Aw, c'mon, 'Raj," Hound protested, "What's the big deal? We weren't in any danger; I didn't think you'd mind!"

"You left me all alone up there," Mirage said, soft and wounded.

Hound's demeanor underwent a radical shift, his shoulders slumping in dismay. "Oh, '_Raj_," he whispered, wrapping his arms around his lover in a fierce embrace. "I'm so sorry," he said, his vocalizer laden with regret.

This time Mirage didn't spurn the attempt – he leaned into Hound's touch, his helm bowing, his arms slipping around Hound's waist components in return, clinging to him, shivering with barely-repressed emotion.

"I'm sorry too, Mirage," Trailbreaker said. "It's my fault; I'm the one who talked him into it. I didn't realize how much it would upset you."

"It wouldn't have happened at all if I hadn't fallen in in the first place," Wheeljack volunteered, feeling rather guilty himself. "It's my fault, too."

Mirage looked up, meeting Hound's contrite optics. "It's all right," he said after a long moment. "I'm just glad you're all back. Let's go home."

They transformed and rolled out.

x.x.x.x.x

When they returned to the _Ark_ they headed directly for the washracks, by mutual unspoken agreement. Hound, Trailbreaker and Wheeljack were all in dire need of a good cleansing after their adventure in the river, and Mirage had gotten muddy enough through his contact with Hound to compel the fastidious noblemech to join them.

They were late enough in getting back that the 'racks were unoccupied when they arrived, although still damp from recent use. They set about removing the weeds first, tugging free those within reach by themselves, then enlisting the aid of their companions to extract the rest. The activity was accompanied by numerous jokes and playful banter, not to mention a fair amount of flirtation.

Wheeljack averted his optics when he spied Mirage pulling a long strand free of Hound's hip joint in a manner far more suggestive than necessary and then proceeding to "clean" the exposed seam with slow, sensual strokes of his fingertips. Even looking the other way, Wheeljack could hear Hound's groan of pleasure and Mirage's quiet laughter.

He flinched when he felt a hand brush against the tip of one of his sensor-winglets, his intakes hitching.

"You look like you're wearing a green cape," Trailbreaker commented from behind him, chuckling as he drew a handful of the organic matter free.

Wheeljack activated his vocalizer to reply, but all that emerged was a startled gasp as Trailbreaker ran a hand across the top of his left sensor-winglet, his fingers scraping lightly over the highly-tuned sensor nodes as he swept it clear of the soggy weeds.

The fleeting touch might have been accidental, but the one that followed definitely wasn't – Trailbreaker pressed in close, his hands sliding around Wheeljack's waist components, his chestplate scraping against Wheeljack's backstrut as he leaned down to nip gently at the exposed sensor winglet, his lip components dragging over the edge.

A low moan escaped him, his vocal indicators flashing as he arched into the touch, pressing harder into Trailbreaker's embrace. Trailbreaker's engine revved, sending a flurry of vibrations down Wheeljack's backstrut, eliciting another soft moan as his core temperature leapt several degrees.

Some distant part of his processor protested, reminding Wheeljack that they weren't alone, the 'racks were a very public place – not only were Hound and Mirage actively present, any 'Bot could walk in at any time – but then Trailbreaker dipped his fingers into the transformation seams at Wheeljack's hips, ostensibly to clear them of weeds, and suddenly none of that seemed to matter anymore.

Wheeljack's vocal indicators flickered wordlessly as he reached back, groping blindly for Trailbreaker's communications array. His searching fingers closed over a handful of water weeds instead, making him shiver at the unfamiliar texture against the sensors lining his palm, cold and damp and squishy_,_ but undeniably _erotic_.

His helm fell back against Trailbreaker's shoulder-strut as Trailbreaker ground against him; Wheeljack dropped the weeds and reached for him again, rising up on the forward edge of his feet, straining to claim his prize as Trailbreaker dug deeper into the seams at his hips, ardently stroking and tugging the wires within, his lip components still nipping along the edge of Wheeljack's left sensor-winglet.

At long last, Wheeljack's questing fingertips brushed against the smooth metal of Trailbreaker's communications array, and he seized upon it like a lifeline, gripping tightly as he dragged his hand upward along its length and then back down again. Trailbreaker groaned in response, a deep, nearly subsonic sound that sent more delicious vibrations down Wheeljack's backstrut and sensor-winglet as Trailbreaker ground feverishly against him, rumbling possessively.

Nearly overcome by sensation, his core temperature peaking, Wheeljack tossed his helm back and forth against Trailbreaker's shoulder-strut, soft, helpless moans flowing continuously from his vocalizer. Out of the corner of his optic, he spied Mirage and Hound, wrapped in each other's arms, hands moving greedily over each other's frames. As Wheeljack stared, Mirage caught his gaze over Hound's shoulder-strut and held it, grinning slyly at him as he ducked his helm to close his lip components over Hound's neck cables. Wheeljack watched them, embarrassed but unable to look away, curious to see Hound's reaction.

Hound's response did not disappoint; he gasped through his intakes, crying out and clutching at his lover, his engine revving hard. Mirage hummed with delight, drawing forth another gasp and a deep, shuddering moan as he ran his hands up Hound's backstrut to trace his windshield –

Wheeljack's gaze was suddenly torn away from them, not of his own volition but as a result of Trailbreaker pulling back abruptly to shove him up against the washrack wall, his lip components now seeking out Wheeljack's own neck cables and stimulating them mercilessly.

Liquid solvent splattered over their frames from the forgotten sprayer, no longer warm, but no match for the intense heat of their overheated systems; the droplets steamed and sizzled against their plating as they struck, the sharp contrast further exciting already-aroused sensor nets.

Trailbreaker's engine roared as his energy field enveloped Wheeljack, subjecting him to an ardent barrage of hot, rapid pulses that set his circuits aflame. His own field extended outward to meet it even as his hands groped desperately, scrabbling against Trailbreaker's bumper and fumbling their way beneath, seeking out the sensitive components hidden within .

The blast of heat and vibration that met his searching fingers as they caressed Trailbreaker's engine block triggered a renewed burst of sensation in his hands, making him jerk and buck convulsively against the larger mech, the back of his helm striking the wall behind him with a sharp _crack_ –

The impact jolted his optics back online – until that moment Wheeljack hadn't even realized he'd offlined them – and he once more caught sight of Hound and Mirage across Trailbreaker's shoulder-strut.

They were watching them. Watching _him_, their optics ablaze with arousal, their engines thrumming. Their hands still moved lazily over each other's frames, but it was clear where their focus lay.

Unaware that their interface had gained the attention of his best friend and his lover, Trailbreaker pressed harder into him, pinning Wheeljack against the wall, rumbling lustfully as he thrust his energy field into Wheeljack again and again, the vibrations of his engine rattling Wheeljack to his very core.

It was too much, he was coming undone, he was going to overload _right here_, against the wall, clasped in Trailbreaker's arms with Hound and Mirage looking on – his vocalizer was fritzing, producing high, keening whines and ragged bursts of static, his vocal indicators flashing wildly – he panted through his intakes, fighting to stay in control, practically sobbing with need – _not here, not now, they're_ watching,_ oh_ Primus_ –!_

Trailbreaker's ramping energy levels finally reached their peak; he overloaded with a roar, his explosive release tipping Wheeljack over the edge and sending him tumbling into overload right along with him. Wheeljack clutched at him for support, his hands tightening possibly-painfully over sensitive internal components as wave after wave of pleasure rocketed through his frame, turning his joints to water. Strong arms pulled him close as his optics dimmed and flickered – and then everything went dark.

x.x.x.x.x

"….ike a _lightshow!_" someone was saying, sounding somewhere between amused and impressed.

"Very inspiring," a second voice replied appreciatively, smooth and cultured despite a noticeable buzz of static.

The first sensation to penetrate Wheeljack's awareness was _cold_, followed by _warmth_ – a steady shower of cold liquid was falling over him, but something warm and solid was pressed tightly against his chestplate, mitigating some of the chilling effect.

He onlined his optics to the by-now-familiar sight of Trailbreaker smiling down at him fondly, his expression a curious mix of affection, sheepishness and pride. "What happened?" he asked dazedly.

"You offlined again," Trailbreaker said.

"_Again?_" Hound exclaimed incredulously. "Way to go, 'Breaker!"

"Shush," Mirage said chidingly. "Don't be crude."

"You all right?" Trailbreaker asked gently.

"…yeah," he said.

Awareness was slowly creeping back into his processor as his systems rebooted, inundating his CPU with a torrent of information; he was in the washracks, half-leaning against the cold tiled wall, most of his weight supported by Trailbreaker, whose arms were wrapped around him, keeping him on his feet. Hound and Mirage were standing nearby, their plating freshly-washed and gleaming, still wet with solvent. He and Trailbreaker were equally damp, but still muddy and sporting a number of fresh paint scrapes that would require additional buffing to remove.

The memory files of their recent activity flooded Wheeljack's cache, bringing with them an intense desire to sink into the floor and disappear. If he'd had an electro-disruptor like Mirage, he'd undoubtedly be using it now.

He'd _overloaded_ right in front of them.

Still reeling from the realization, he accepted the incoming comm automatically, without thought. _*Thank you, Wheeljack,*_ Mirage said over the private line, the smile on his lip components evident in his tone, _*That was extremely helpful.*_

_*You're welcome,*_ he replied reflexively.

Mirage grinned, closing the link, and turned to Hound. "My quarters," he said. "_Now_."

Hound's optics lit up at the command. "Yes, _sir!_" he said.

Trailbreaker chuckled as Mirage turned away, casting a coy glance back over his shoulder-strut at his lover as he departed the 'racks. Hound followed him like an eager turbo-puppy, tossing off a distracted, "Later, guys!" in lieu of a more dignified farewell.

Trailbreaker chuckled again, shaking his helm. "That Mirage," he said, "He's something else. He's got Hound wrapped around his little finger."

"Yeah," he agreed discomfitedly. "But he loves him. I guess that makes it okay."

"You really think he loves him?" Trailbreaker asked. "I know Hound does – he's showing all the signs – but with Mirage it's hard to tell."

Wheeljack nodded, "He does; I'm pretty sure," he agreed. "He told me being with Hound makes him happy."

"He does seem happier," Trailbreaker mused. "I remember he hardly ever talked before, but now he smiles all the time, and makes jokes – Hound's different too. I guess they make each other happy."

Trailbreaker turned his gaze back to him, meeting his optics. "You make _me_ happy," he said softly.

"Thanks," he replied awkwardly. "I think I can stand on my own now."

Trailbreaker frowned faintly, but then grinned. "We need to finish cleaning up," he said. "Want me to do your back?"

"Sure," he said with a half-shrug.

Trailbreaker drew back, freeing Wheeljack from his trapped position against the wall and granting him enough room to turn his back toward him. Grabbing a brush from the nearby rack, Trailbreaker set to work.

With the topic of Hound and Mirage's relationship no longer serving as a distraction, embarrassment and irritation surged to the fore within Wheeljack's CPU. He was mortified by what had happened – Trailbreaker had '_faced_ him in front of his friends, two mechs with whom Wheeljack was only casually acquainted, put him on display! Right now Hound and Mirage were probably acting out a similar scene in Mirage's quarters, with _Wheeljack_ as their inspiration.

Unlike him, they had the luxury of _privacy_ in which to do so.

Primus, he'd even _offlined_.

They'd been talking about him while they waited for him to reboot, commenting over him like some kind of novelty. They'd congratulated Trailbreaker, treating him like a hero – and why wouldn't they? He'd overloaded an officer and repair 'Bot so hard he offlined, made the normally-composed and reclusive inventor completely lose control of himself.

It was utterly _humiliating_.

The gentle scrubbing against his backstrut slowed, then stopped. Trailbreaker shifted behind him, pressing in close, his chestplate tight against Wheeljack's backstrut.

"Mmmm," Trailbreaker hummed appreciatively. "You're still warm."

Wheeljack stiffened. Hadn't Trailbreaker had _enough?_ He pulled away, turning to face him. "Your turn," he said curtly.

Trailbreaker looked startled; "Okay," he said, handing Wheeljack the brush and turning his back to him.

Wheeljack began to scrub Trailbreaker's backstrut, perhaps a little more vigorously than necessary. Trailbreaker shivered, probably from the solvent, which was positively frigid from having been left running so long. Wheeljack happened upon a few stray water weeds still tangled around the base of Trailbreaker's communications array and impatiently tugged them free, casting them aside.

When the last trace of mud had been eliminated to his satisfaction, he stepped back. "Done," he announced.

Trailbreaker turned to face him, a faint frown still curving his lip components. He looked about to say something when Wheeljack turned away to rinse and return the brush to its rack and switch off the sprayer, but ultimately held back, opting to remain silent.

"Dryer?" Wheeljack asked, turning back to face him. Mirage and Hound hadn't bothered; they'd been in too much of a hurry.

"Yeah, okay," Trailbreaker said.

They made their way over to the blowers, choosing adjacent stations. Wheeljack activated his, and Trailbreaker followed suit.

After roughly a klik Trailbreaker spoke up, raising his voice to be heard over the roar of the dryer. "Everything okay, Wheeljack?" he asked.

"Fine," he replied shortly.

"You're angry with me," Trailbreaker said.

"No I'm not," he lied.

Trailbreaker stepped out of his drying station and into Wheeljack's, crowding him closer to the blower as Wheeljack stepped back to make room for the larger mech. "Yes," he said firmly, "You are."

Wheeljack met his gaze, but didn't reply.

Trailbreaker's core temperature was slightly elevated, maybe from the warm air of the dryer, maybe not. Wheeljack could feel the heat radiating off his plating, the sensation stirring an uneasy blend of apprehension and arousal in his circuits. Standing this close to him, Trailbreaker suddenly seemed a lot _bigger_ than usual.

"Why are you angry with me, Wheeljack?" Trailbreaker asked gently.

Primus, he _hated_ that tone! It was the same one Ratchet had used on him, cautious, as if the inventor were as potentially explosive as one of his inventions.

"I'm not," he insisted, pushing at Trailbreaker's chestplate. "You're blocking the air."

Trailbreaker stepped back, frowning at him.

He _wasn't_ mad at Trailbreaker, not really. Well, maybe a little. He could get over the embarrassment of being exposed like that to Hound and Mirage – Mirage was too polite to gossip, and would probably keep Hound in check – he just didn't want to go another round, that's all. The 'racks were still a public place; any 'Bot might wander in, possibly one more inclined to run his vocalizer, or worse, a fellow officer – Wheeljack shuddered at the thought of Prowl or Optimus Prime walking in on them, or Primus, even _Ratchet_ –

"You want to head back to my quarters?" Trailbreaker asked tentatively, interrupting his thoughts.

"Yeah – no," he amended as his internal reminder pinged. He'd wanted to pay a visit to the Dinobots. "I mean, I will, but later," he said in response to Trailbreaker's bewildered look. "I want to check on the Dinobots," he explained. "I haven't looked in on them since they got back from Cybertron."

"Oh," Trailbreaker said diffidently. "So…you'll come by after?"

"Yeah," he said. Trailbreaker would probably want to 'face with him again before they recharged, but he was fine with that. Trailbreaker's quarters were _private_. "See you then?"

"Sure," Trailbreaker said, nodding slowly, looking pensive. "See you then."

x.x.x.x.x

Not being members of the original crew, The Dinobots didn't have official quarters aboard the _Ark_. Instead they'd been assigned to a large room that had previously served as a secondary cargo bay. The far wall, which had once been part of the ship's hull, had been damaged in the crash; the new fourth wall was a rugged rock face, part of the dormant volcano the downed ship now occupied.

As such, the room was always warm, if not aesthetically pleasing. It was also large enough to accommodate the Dinobots' massive frames, which normal living quarters would be hard-pressed to do, especially given their preference for resolving their differences through enthusiastic brawling.

Overall, the room's furnishings were rather spartan; he and Ratchet had located some spare berths for them, set up in the far right corner, and had liberated a large table and a handful of chairs from the commissary, but that was all – the Dinobots had few possessions of their own, and with their limited intellect, they had little use for workstations.

Initially Wheeljack had brought them puzzles and games to further the development of their simple processors, but their inherent aggression had made short work of them. The Dinobots had a distinct tendency to destroy anything that frustrated them. Finally Wheeljack had been forced to accept that their intellectual development had reached an unfortunate plateau, and had brought them entertainment vids instead.

They were viewing one such vid when he arrived, or at least Swoop, Snarl and Sludge were; Grimlock and Slag were arguing, over what, Wheeljack wasn't sure – their debate currently consisted of a steady back and forth of "Is not," and "Is too!" – but all five looked up as he entered their domain.

"Hey guys," he greeted them with a friendly wave. "How's it going?"

Their response was uncharacteristically subdued. Snarl and Sludge turned back to the vidscreen, summarily dismissing him; Grimlock eyed him with undisguised suspicion, and his audials caught Slag's resentful mutter of, "What _him_ want?" Only Swoop met his optics and returned his wave, albeit with less enthusiasm than usual.

_They're mad at you, that's normal,_ he thought, recalling what Ratchet had theorized in an effort to soothe his clenching spark. Best to start off with an apology, he surmised.

"I'm sorry, guys," he said. "I know I haven't been around much lately. I'm here to make it up to you; how are your self-repairs going?"

That got their attention. Sludge and Snarl looked up from their program, and Grimlock's expression shifted from one of suspicion to wary intrigue. Slag grumbled; Swoop smiled.

There was a brief pause as they all stared at each other.

"Me, Sludge have problem with arm…thingy," Sludge volunteered tentatively.

"Yeah?" he asked, feeling relieved. The ice was broken. "Well, c'mon over, let's have a look."

Sludge rose and ambled over to him, holding out his right arm in offering. Wheeljack noticed immediately the way it creaked as Sludge raised it, and didn't miss the Dinobot's ill-concealed wince.

"Looks like that servo is out of alignment," he observed, retrieving his tools from subspace. It was a common problem, and an easy fix. "We'll have you sorted out in just a klik, Sludge," he assured him, and set to work on the repairs.

By the time he'd finished with Sludge, the others seemed ready to forgive him. Snarl sidled up to him next, pointing silently to his chestplate. Upon closer investigation Wheeljack discovered a hidden crack in the plating they'd overlooking during the prior repairs. Murmuring an apology, he fixed that too.

After that, the others allowed him to look them over as well. Grimlock was fine, but Wheeljack was grateful he'd submitted himself to a checkup all the same. Grimlock was reluctant to admit to any weakness, fearing it reflected poorly on him as a leader, and therefore had a habit of concealing injuries.

He'd barely declared Grimlock fit and functional when Slag pushed in, shouldering past Grimlock to stand in front of Wheeljack expectantly.

"Any trouble, Slag?" he asked when the Dinobot just stood there, staring at him wordlessly.

"No!" Slag bellowed belligerently. "Me, Slag _fine!_"

"Why don't I take a look at you anyway," he replied, suppressing a chuckle. Slag clearly _wanted_ to be examined, if only to avoid being left out, but contrary to the last, he refused to admit it.

"No look!" Slag insisted, opening a panel in his chestplate and thrusting it toward Wheeljack. "Me, Slag, no _like_ repairs!"

"I'm sorry to hear that, Slag," he said soberly. "But you're going to have to let me check you out like the others, just in case."

"Check good," Slag commanded begrudgingly. "No miss anything!"

"I'll be careful," he assured him, and began looking him over.

He didn't find any problems – Slag was indeed fine, just as he'd claimed – but Wheeljack replaced a few minor wires anyway, just to satisfy the Dinobot's desire for attention equal to that of his peers. Closing Slag's panel, he turned to Swoop, the only Dinobot he hadn't attended.

"Any problems, Swoop?" he asked. Like Grimlock, Swoop sometimes failed to complain about minor injuries, although Wheeljack had always suspected he kept silent out of a desire not to trouble anyone rather than out of pride.

Swoop ducked his helm shyly in response to his question, and said nothing.

"Swoop?" he repeated, adding just a touch of sternness to his tone.

"Wing get hurt on Cybertron," Swoop confessed, "but it okay."

"Are you sure?" he asked dubiously. He could see it now, a small slit in the leading edge of Swoop's right wing, running parallel to the transformation seam. The Dinobot's regenerative systems had obviously attempted to seal the gap since the initial injury, but without a proper patch weld to set it in place, the self-repair had been only partially effective. "Can you fly?"

"No," Swoop admitted, ducking his helm again.

"We've talked about this, Swoop," he scolded gently. "When you get damaged, you're supposed to tell me or Ratchet."

"Me, Swoop, sorry," Swoop said contritely.

"It's all right," he reassured him, motioning for the Dinobot to kneel so he could begin his repairs, using a cutting torch to reopen the partially-repaired gap. "I'm not mad. But you have to try and remember, okay?"

"Okay," Swoop said. "Me, Swoop, remember next time."

"Good," he said, switching out the cutting torch for a welder and applying a proper patch to the injured wing. "Ratchet and I worry when you don't tell us you're hurt."

"Me, Swoop, sorry," Swoop said again. "Me no want to make Wheeljack and Ratchet worry."

"There," he said, giving the repaired wing a gentle pat. "You're all patched up. Give it a couple of days before you try any fancy flying, okay?"

"Okay," Swoop agreed. He hesitated a moment, then added, "Dinobots worry about Wheeljack, too."

He stared at him, taken aback. "What do you mean, Swoop?"

"Dinobots worry," Swoop repeated. "Why him Wheeljack no tell Dinobots what wrong?"

He glanced around at the others; they'd all stopped what they were doing to look at him, clearly awaiting his response.

"What makes you think something's wrong?" he asked.

Swoop gave him a look that was almost disappointed. "Dinobots know," he said sagely.

He looked at the others; they were nodding in agreement, regarding him curiously. "Did Ratchet say something to you?" he asked, his spark clenching in apprehension.

"No need to," Swoop replied, shaking his helm. "Dinobots can tell."

_How could they know?_ he thought anxiously. _ Ratchet wouldn't have told them; they don't even know about interfacing! How would he explain it to them?_

"Dinobots talk to him Wheeljack," Swoop said reproachfully. "Why him Wheeljack no talk to Dinobots? Dinobots feel bad when Wheeljack no talk to them. Him Wheeljack no like Dinobots anymore?"

Suddenly it all made sense. The Dinobots' recent rebelliousness, their inexplicable hostility toward him – this, he realized, was the reason behind it all.

They were all looking at him expectantly. "I…I did get hurt, a while ago," he admitted. "But I'm fine now. Everything's okay. I just…didn't want to worry you."

"Me, Sludge, worry anyway," Sludge said hesitantly.

"Me, Snarl worry too," Snarl chimed in.

"Me, Slag, worry _more!_" Slag bellowed, not wanting to be outdone.

"Me, Grimlock _smash_ ugly Sub-Atlanticans for hurting Wheeljack!" Grimlock rumbled aggressively.

"Me, Slag, smash too!"

Wheeljack stared at them in shock, his processor reeling. How did they know _that_ had been the day he'd –? How _could_ they know? How _much_ did they know?

After a few panicked astroseconds, he managed to get his pulsing spark back under control. Of _course_ they knew he'd been hurt that day – the Dinobots had been called in to help fight the Sub-Atlanticans, and it was common knowledge that Wheeljack had been captured and damaged – he'd been brought back to the base offline and immobilized. They might even have been the ones to help transport him there.

They didn't know about Starscream, or what had _really_ happened to their creator that day.

"I was hurt pretty bad," he said, hoping to mollify them "But I'm okay now, really. I'm sorry I worried you. I should've let you know I was all right."

They exchanged glances, frowning in confusion.

"What's wrong?" he asked. "I'm all right, I promise."

"Why him Wheeljack fight with Ratchet?" Swoop asked.

His optics widened. They knew about _that_, too?

"Ratchet, uh…Ratchet was worried about me, just like you guys," he ventured. He had to keep his answer simple, something they could understand. "I didn't listen to him when I should have, and that made him angry at me. It's important to always listen to medics and do what they tell you, otherwise you might end up making things worse – like your wing, Swoop."

Given an example they could relate to, the Dinobots nodded in understanding.

"Why him Wheeljack no listen?" Sludge wondered aloud.

He shrugged uncomfortably. "I thought I knew better," he admitted. "I thought I didn't need to listen to Ratchet; that I could fix everything by myself. I was wrong to think that. I'm good at fixing things, but I'm not a medic. Ratchet is."

They regarded him quizzically, trying to process his explanation.

"You don't have to worry," he assured them. "Ratchet and I aren't fighting anymore. Everything is okay now. You're okay, I'm okay, and Ratchet's okay. Everything's fine."

"Him Wheeljack still like Dinobots?" Swoop asked cautiously.

"Of course I like you," he said. "And I'm proud of you, too. I know you got hurt, and that you were scared, but I think you were very brave to go all the way to Cybertron by yourselves, and to help Spike and Carly bring back the cybertonium we needed. You saved us all, doing that."

"Dinobots always saving bossy Autobots," Grimlock grumbled.

"Dinobots _are_ Autobots," he replied, "and saving others is what Autobots do."

"Humans save Dinobots on Cybertron," Swoop pointed out, frowning at Grimlock.

"That's right," Wheeljack said. "That's why Optimus Prime made Spike and Carly honorary Autobots. Because they saved you, just like any Autobot would have."

"Me, Slag, no _like_ other Autobots!" Slag said, pushing over and shoving up against him roughly, causing Wheeljack to stumble for a moment before he regained his footing.

His aggressive approach aside, Slag's message was clear. Wheeljack draped an arm around his shoulder-strut, or tried to, anyway – his arm was only long enough to reach halfway around Slag's massive chassis, so his hand ended up resting in the middle of the Dinobot's backstrut – and said, "You don't have to like _all_ of them. Some of them even _I_ don't get along with. But all of them are our allies, so you should always help them if they need it, whether you like them or not."

"Why?" Sludge asked.

"Because they'd do the same for you, Sludge," he replied. "For all of you," he added, looking at each of them in turn, "Even if they don't like you. Even if they say bad things about you sometimes, or act mean – they'll still help you if you get in trouble."

"Dinobots no get in trouble," Grimlock said scornfully. "Dinobots no _need_ help! Autobots need _Dinobots'_ help."

"That's true, most of the time," he agreed, to placate Grimlock's ego. "You guys are really tough, so it's only natural that we'd need your help more often than you need ours. But if you _did_ need help, we'd give it to you. Everyone worked really hard to fix you when you got hurt. We were all worried about you."

"Optimus Prime worry about Grimlock?" Grimlock asked.

Wheeljack nodded. "He was very worried," he confirmed. He knew Grimlock looked up to Optimus almost in spite of himself, recognizing Prime's ability to command the sort of respect and authority he craved. "He came to check on you personally when we were repairing you. That's good to know, isn't it?"

He watched them mull that over, nodding. Even Grimlock appeared satisfied. Wheeljack felt the tension easing from his servos, his hydraulics depressurizing.

"I'm sorry I haven't spent much time with you lately," he said. "But I promise to visit more often from now on, okay? We can work on your training some more."

"Okay," Sludge said slowly. Swoop beamed; Snarl nodded.

"Me, Slag, no _like_ training," Slag grumbled, pressing more firmly against him.

"Me, Grimlock, leader," Grimlock growled, glowering at Slag. "Me, Grimlock say Dinobots need more training! Him Slag work on fire stuff. Me, Grimlock, say so."

Slag pouted; Wheeljack chuckled.

Things were back to normal, all right.

x.x.x.x.x

Still shaking his helm in amusement, Wheeljack made his way down the corridor toward Trailbreaker's quarters. The Dinobots had surprised him. He'd never realized how perceptive they were, or imagined that they might worry about _him_ as much as he worried about _them_. It was a rather pleasant discovery, to learn how much his creations actually _cared_.

Arriving at Trailbreaker's door, he transmitted a query ping.

"It's open," Trailbreaker called.

He activated the panel, feeling vaguely puzzled. Why hadn't Trailbreaker come to the door?

The answer was revealed when the door slid open; Trailbreaker was seated in his chair, reading a datapad, and evidently quite thoroughly absorbed in it – he didn't even look up as Wheeljack entered.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey," Trailbreaker replied absently.

He shifted his weight uncomfortably. This wasn't quite the reception he'd been expecting. Trailbreaker had said Wheeljack was welcome to visit his quarters anytime, had implied an invitation to come by tonight when they were in the 'racks earlier, but his present demeanor made Wheeljack feel more like an intruder than a welcome guest.

"I can leave, if you're busy," he offered.

"I'm not busy," Trailbreaker replied. "Have a seat, make yourself comfortable."

After a moment's hesitation, Wheeljack took a seat on the berth, feeling bewildered. Trailbreaker had asked if he'd be coming by later; surely that meant he'd _wanted_ him to?

"How are the Dinobots?" Trailbreaker asked without looking up.

"Good," he said. "They needed some minor maintenance, but nothing serious. They're fine."

"Glad to hear it," Trailbreaker replied. "I know you were worried about them."

_They were worried about me, too,_ he thought wryly. "What are you reading?" he asked.

"That datapad Brawn gave me," Trailbreaker said. "Never would have guessed he was into poetry."

"Maybe he isn't," he joked. "Maybe that's why he gave it to you."

"Yeah, maybe," Trailbreaker said. He didn't say anything more, though, and an awkward silence fell.

"Is it any good?" Wheeljack asked after a moment.

Trailbreaker shrugged. "It's okay," he said. "I was never really all that into poetry."

_Then why are you reading it?_ he wondered. "I had a lot of fun today," he volunteered. Perhaps a change of subject would perk Trailbreaker up. Maybe he was depressed about seeing Hound so happy with Mirage?

"Me too," Trailbreaker said. "It was nice, getting to spend time with Hound again. With all of you. I always kind of cleared out when Mirage showed up before; I figured he and Hound would rather be alone. Today was the first time I actually saw them together for more than a few kliks."

"I never really talked to Mirage before today," he agreed. "I guess no one did, except Hound. He's actually pretty friendly once you get to know him. I was surprised."

"So was I," Trailbreaker said, finally lowering the datapad and raising his helm to meet Wheeljack's gaze. "Seeing him with Hound today…kinda got me thinking."

"About what?" he asked.

"Just…things," Trailbreaker replied, regarding him thoughtfully.

Wheeljack didn't really know how to respond to that, but Trailbreaker's steady gaze was making him feel vaguely uncomfortable. It was almost as if he were…_waiting_ for something.

Wheeljack searched his cache for some clue that would explain Trailbreaker's odd behavior; had he offended Trailbreaker in some way? Did he owe him an apology?

His search came up empty, leaving him even more bewildered than before. He couldn't think of anything he might have done to annoy Trailbreaker, and Trailbreaker didn't _seem_ angry, anyway. But he was still looking at Wheeljack expectantly, obviously waiting for him to say _something_ –

"Do you think you'll be spending more time with Hound now?" he asked spontaneously, just to break the oppressive silence. "I mean, now that you know you don't have to avoid him when Mirage is around?"

Trailbreaker's optics widened in surprise, and Wheeljack instantly regretted the question. Hound was a subject Trailbreaker always seemed willing to discuss; it had seemed as good a topic as any to get him talking again. If Hound was a part of whatever was making Trailbreaker act this way, Wheeljack reasoned it was an appropriate subject to broach, but based on Trailbreaker's reaction, it _wasn't_ what he'd been expecting Wheeljack to say.

"Are you jealous of Hound?" Trailbreaker asked.

Wheeljack stared at him incredulously. "No," he scoffed, "of course not," his tone making it clear just how ridiculous he found that question to be. "Why would I be?"

"Hound and I are pretty close," Trailbreaker replied reasonably, "We've interfaced, and we know each other really well. We have a lot in common, too. I could understand you feeling threatened by him."

"I'm not _threatened_ by him," he replied indignantly.

"You do act kind of uncomfortable whenever he's around," Trailbreaker pointed out. "Especially when he jokes around about interfacing."

Wheeljack couldn't believe his audials. "I am _not_ jealous of Hound!" he exclaimed emphatically. Where had Trailbreaker gotten such a ludicrous idea?

"Are you sure?" Trailbreaker asked.

"I think _you're_ the one who's jealous," he accused. "You're always talking about him, about how much you _miss_ him now that he's spending all his time with _Mirage._"

Trailbreaker stared at him. "You _are_ jealous," he said, sounding oddly…pleased.

"_I am not!_" he denied vehemently. "_I'm_ not the one trying to make him jealous, putting on little _shows_ to impress him!"

Trailbreaker looked startled. "What are you talking about?" he asked.

"You think I didn't notice?" he snapped. "Telling him what kind of _sounds_ I make –"

"I said I was sorry about that," Trailbreaker interrupted him. "I didn't mean to embarrass you."

"Did he ask you for a demonstration, too?" he demanded. "For you to let him _watch_ while you 'face me?"

Trailbreaker's optics widened in shock, which was something of a relief. Wheeljack hadn't honestly thought it was like that, that Trailbreaker had planned it all, that he was just using him to make Hound jealous – his vocalizer had just sort of…run off on its own. He might have suspected Trailbreaker of _competing_ with Hound a little, but nothing as calculated as what he'd just suggested.

"They were watching us?" Trailbreaker asked. "In the 'racks? Hound and Mirage?"

"Yeah," he said. "Mirage even commed to _thank_ me for being so _inspiring_. It was completely _humiliating!_"

"_That's_ why you were so torqued off at me," Trailbreaker said. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't exactly have time," he muttered. "I didn't notice them watching us until – until it was too late."

"You could have told me after they left," Trailbreaker pointed out. He shook his helm, "I knew you were angry with me about something, but you kept saying you weren't."

Wheeljack's vocal indicators flickered, but his vocalizer failed to produce any words. He shrugged uncomfortably, chagrined at being caught in a lie.

"I'm sorry for embarrassing you," Trailbreaker said. "I didn't know they were watching us. I didn't even think about it – I'm so used to Hound, it didn't even occur to me that it might upset you." He grinned sheepishly, "To be honest, I was mostly thinking about _you_. I'd been wanting to 'face you all day; I just couldn't hold back anymore."

Trailbreaker's excuse _did_ seem plausible – not to mention flattering – and Wheeljack was inclined to believe his apology was sincere.

"In my defense, you seemed pretty into it at the time," Trailbreaker added. "I mean, you _offlined!_" he laughed. "That's usually a fairly reliable indicator."

"I was, I guess," he admitted grudgingly. "I just…don't like being put on display like that."

Trailbreaker nodded, "I remember now, you said something like that before," he said. "That time when we were on the ship, and thought we were all gonna die? You said you couldn't do it in front of everyone, not even then. I'm sorry I forgot. I should have remembered that before I jumped you."

He half-shrugged, lifting a shoulder-strut. "It's okay," he said. "I know you didn't mean it."

"I'm glad we sorted that out," Trailbreaker said. "I was going crazy, wondering what I did wrong. I wish you'd just told me."

He shrugged again, guiltily. Once more they lapsed into silence.

After a few kliks, the silence grew more oppressive, and Wheeljack started to feel uneasy again. They'd worked out their differences, cleared the air – didn't that make everything all right again? Trailbreaker was still sitting in his chair, having made no move toward the berth. Shouldn't he be doing that by now?

He glanced up uncertainly, and found Trailbreaker looking at him with the oddest expression – pensive, almost despairing.

"What is it?" he asked. "What's wrong?"

"A lot," Trailbreaker said quietly. "A lot, I think."

He stared at him, cocking his helm in confusion; Trailbreaker's expression had shifted in a way that was downright alarming – he looked positively _stricken_.

"What?" he asked, his spark clenching. "What'd I do?"

"Nothing," Trailbreaker replied bitterly. "Absolutely nothing. Oh, _Primus_…"

"I don't understand," he said, disturbed by the look of profound distress on Trailbreaker's faceplate, like a mech in the grip of some horrific revelation.

"You're not going to ask me, are you?" Trailbreaker said mournfully, his helm bowing in defeat. "I'd hoped it was just a coincidence, that I was imagining it all. That if I gave you the chance, you'd ask me."

Wheeljack was baffled. "Ask you what?" he asked. "What are you talking about?"

Trailbreaker raised his helm, pinning him with his gaze. "Do you want to interface with me, Wheeljack?"

He'd been baffled before, now he was dumbfounded. Trailbreaker wanted to 'face _now?_ "You want to?" he asked, utterly bewildered. "Sure, I guess."

"That's not what I asked," Trailbreaker said.

Wheeljack shook his helm sharply, wondering if his audials were glitching. "Did you fry a logic circuit?" he asked. "You're not making any sense."

"Do you. Want. To interface. With me." Trailbreaker repeated.

Wheeljack stared at him blankly. "Yes..?" he said uncertainly. Was that the right answer? Did Trailbreaker want him to say _no?_

"Then why aren't you?" Trailbreaker asked.

His vocal indicators flashed incredulously. "I didn't know you wanted to!" he said. If Trailbreaker wanted to interface, why was he just _sitting_ there? Confusion began to give way to anger. "How was I supposed to know you wanted to? You never _said_ y–"

"Forget about me," Trailbreaker interrupted. "Do _you_ want to?"

Wheeljack started, taken aback by the direct question. His vocal indicators flashed wordlessly.

Trailbreaker regarded him steadily, a world of hurt in his gaze. "Did you _ever_ want to?" he asked quietly.

He shook his helm in disbelief. "Are you glitched?" he asked. "I've 'faced with you loads of times..!"

"When _I_ wanted to," Trailbreaker said.

His shoulder-struts slumped, his anger deflating as Trailbreaker's meaning dawned on him, finally realizing what he was getting at. "I…I wanted to when you wanted to," he said lamely.

"What if I didn't?" Trailbreaker persisted. "If you wanted to, but you weren't sure I did, would you ask me?"

He shrugged uncomfortably. "Yeah, sure," he said diffidently.

"So all this time we've been together, you just…haven't wanted to," Trailbreaker said. "Except when I did."

"What is this?" he asked defensively, offended by Trailbreaker's patronizingly dubious tone.

"Why am _I_ always the one asking _you?_ How come you never ask me?" Trailbreaker pressed. "You never even _touch_ me. I can hardly keep my hands off you sometimes, but you – you never touch me."

"I touch you all the time!"

"When we're interfacing, sure, after _I_ get things rolling," Trailbreaker argued. "Only after _I_ touch _you_. You never touch me first, never say you wanna 'face me – it's like…it's like you're just, just going along with it because _I_ want to!"

He activated his vocalizer to deny Trailbreaker's accusation, but the memory files of their past encounters were flooding his cache, flashing through his CPU, bearing proof of Trailbreaker's claim. His vocal indicators flickered mutely.

"Sometimes," Trailbreaker said quietly, "Sometimes it almost seems like you're _afraid_ of me. Afraid if you touch me, it'll give me ideas."

His spark contracted painfully in its chamber. Trailbreaker's observation was far too close to the truth.

"Hound and Mirage touch each other a lot," Trailbreaker mused, "Not just when they're flirting or 'facing, either. They do it all the time. Pit, they touch _me_ more than you do."

"You're comparing us to _them_ now?" he demanded, feeling abruptly on firmer ground. "Sorry I don't 'face like _Hound_ does," he said sarcastically. "So I don't touch you a lot, so what? My hands –"

"– are sensitive, I know," Trailbreaker concluded for him. "I get that. I get why you don't touch other mechs much. What I don't get is why you don't touch _me_. If you wanted to 'face with me, you'd touch me. But you don't."

"This is stupid," he said dismissively. "You want me to touch you more? Fine, I'll touch you. You wanna 'face with me? Let's do it."

"You don't talk to me, either," Trailbreaker said. "You don't tell me when something's bothering you, or when you're angry at me – the only time you say _anything_ is when I ask you, and even then you barely answer me."

"We've been through this," he said impatiently. "Next time I get mad at you, I'll tell you."

"That's not the point," Trailbreaker argued. "The point is I hardly know anything about you! I don't know what you and Ratchet fought about, or why it upset you so much – I didn't even know you'd made up with him until I asked you about it, because you didn't _tell_ me!"

"I would have told you," he said defensively. "You asked before I had the chance!"

"Maybe so," Trailbreaker replied with a shrug. "Maybe you would have. But I still don't know why you fought with him in the first place."

He debated admitting that Ratchet wanted him, that he'd made a bid for Wheeljack's affections when he learned he was seeing Trailbreaker, but opted against it. Trailbreaker had already accused him of being jealous of _Hound_, for Primus' sake – the last thing he needed was to know about Ratchet's...interest.

"There're a lot of other things, too," Trailbreaker said. "Things I don't know about. Things you don't tell me."

"Like what?" he said warily.

"Like why you act like you're afraid of me sometimes," Trailbreaker said. "Like why you moan when you're in recharge, and why you took a swing at me this morning when I tried to wake you."

His optics widened, an icy thrill of fear shivering down his backstrut. _That_ was why Trailbreaker had been touching him? Because he'd been _moaning_ during his recharge cycle?

"I said I was sorry about that," he said, struggling to rein in the sense of panic rising in his circuits. "And anyway, I _did_ tell you why."

Trailbreaker regarded him sadly. "No you didn't," he said. "Not the real reason."

Wheeljack stiffened, his optics narrowing. Was Trailbreaker was calling him a liar? Sure, he kept _some_ things to himself, but those things were _private!_ They were none of his business!

Trailbreaker seemed daunted by his angry expression, but he shook his helm stubbornly. "You're getting angry at me, I can tell," he said. "But I need to say this. I need you to understand."

"Understand what?" he asked suspiciously.

"Why I wanted to uplink with you," Trailbreaker said. "Why I still do, if you'd let me."

"Is _that_ what this is all about?" he demanded, rising up from his seat on the berth, his spark pulsing, alternating between anger and terror. "Uplinking?"

Trailbreaker got to his feet as well, holding his hands out in a placating gesture. "All these things that upset you, that I don't know about, that you don't tell me?" he said. "All the things you're feeling, but don't ever talk about? If we uplinked, I'd know. I'd know all of it."

Wheeljack backed away from him, or tried to; the backs of his legs struck the berth after only half a pace. Trailbreaker was bigger than he was, outweighing him by a good margin, and he'd already demonstrated that he could pin Wheeljack to a berth quite effectively. He folded his arms over his chestplate protectively, swallowing his fear. "I told you, I don't uplink," he said firmly.

"I know," Trailbreaker said. "You don't uplink, because you don't like it."

"You want to link with me and find out how much?" he challenged. "You want to _feel_ it for yourself?"

Trailbreaker drew back, startled. "_No,_" he said, clearly shocked by the suggestion. "Primus, Wheeljack, of _course_ not!"

Trailbreaker's reaction eased some of the tension from his servos. "So what _do_ you want?"

Trailbreaker looked hurt. "I want you to _talk_ to me," he said plaintively. "I _care_ about you, Wheeljack," he said. "I care about you a lot, and I know something's wrong! But I don't know _what_, or _why_, because you won't _tell_ me. And I think – I think, if this is real, you'd tell me. You'd _want_ to tell me."

"And that's why you want me to uplink with you," he said flatly.

"That's not what this is about!" Trailbreaker exclaimed, huffing air though his vents in frustration. "At least, not _just_ that…" He paused, seeming to collect himself, then began to speak again slowly, choosing his words with care, "I'm trying to explain that if you _talked_ to me, I wouldn't _need_ to uplink with you to find out what's on your processor, because you'd have already told me."

Wheeljack's hydraulics abruptly depressurized with a quiet hiss. He finally understood what Trailbreaker was saying – he wasn't threatening him, or planning to force him to uplink –

But he couldn't tell him. He just…_couldn't_.

"If you talked to me, I wouldn't have to wonder how you really feel about me," Trailbreaker said quietly. "But you _don't_ talk to me, and you won't uplink with me. I'm not even sure you want to interface with me anymore." He frowned down at him, pain evident in his optics. "Do you even _like_ me, Wheeljack?"

Wheeljack was startled, both by the question and the tone of hurt and reproach in which it was uttered. "Sure I like you," he said. "Why else would I be here?"

Trailbreaker shook his helm. "I don't know," he said sadly. "That's what I keep asking myself." He lowered his gaze, his shoulder-struts slumping dejectedly. "I'm not sure _why_ you're here, but…I don't think it's because of me."

"What are you saying?" he asked, his spark clenching in sudden inexplicable dread, disturbed by the resignation in Trailbreaker's tone.

"I l-…I _like_ you a lot, Wheeljack," Trailbreaker said. "But I need more. I need to know you like me, too. This…what we have…it's just not working for me."


	28. Abnegation

**Title: **After Atlantis  
**Obligatory Disclaimer:** I don't own Transformers. This chapter contains references to and quotes some dialogue from the G1 cartoon episode_ "Blaster Blues."_  
**Warnings: **PTSD angst, references to rape, references to sex, sexual situations.  
**Author's Note: **Nearly six weeks without an update! *is ashamed* Thanks to everyone for their patience. Regrettably I often suffer the effects of SAD at this time of year, and it tends to slow me down a bit. But we're getting there – only four chapters left!

**Chapter 28: Abnegation**

"_This…what we have…it's just not working for me."_

Wheeljack stared at Trailbreaker uncomprehendingly, his spark twisting in its chamber. "W-wait, are you –?"

Trailbreaker looked away, almost seeming to wince. "Yeah," he said, his vocalizer strained.

The word struck Wheeljack like a blast from his own Immobilizer. He couldn't move, couldn't process – he could only stare in stunned disbelief.

Trailbreaker seemed equally immobile; he stood stiff and silent, his optics averted, tension radiating from every line of his frame, his expression pained but resolute. After a tense moment, he stepped back, leaving Wheeljack with a clear path to the door. "I think you should go."

Wheeljack raised a hand hesitantly, reaching for him –

Trailbreaker recoiled, offlining his optics. "Please," he whispered. "_Please_, just go."

The words were spoken in a tone of near-desperation, threaded with the faintest hiss of static.

Wheeljack withdrew his hand, lowering it slowly to his side. In some distant part of his processor, he noted it was shaking.

There was a queer sense of unreality to it all, a strange feeling of detachment, as if he were floating or falling through space. He wanted to say something, to apologize maybe, but his ability to speak seemed to have abandoned him. He felt himself turning, felt his feet carrying him forward, his trembling hand lifting to trigger the panel that activated the door, but it was as if he were being controlled by an outside force, like a drone operating on remote control, executing a command he'd been given, devoid of emotion or reason.

He stepped out into the hall. The door hissed shut behind him.

He flinched at the sound.

It was over.

x.x.x.x.x

He began to feel a little more normal as he made his way to the section of the _Ark_ that housed his personal quarters, the familiar surroundings gradually reawakening mental processes that had inexplicably gone numb.

He still felt _odd_ though, as he keyed in the locking code on his door and stepped into the room. He was startled by the sight of the haphazard collection of tools, half-finished components and incomplete circuit boards cluttering his workstation, evidence of a project he'd started working on and completely forgotten.

He realized with a jolt that he hadn't been in his own quarters in days.

He lay down on the berth and prepared to initiate a recharge cycle. _That_ felt strange, too. The berth seemed larger than he remembered; the room eerily quiet. Every aspect of his surroundings was familiar, and yet…not.

He lay silently for a time, staring up at the ceiling, his processor curiously empty of thought.

A part of him wanted to recharge. He had the vague sense that when he awoke, everything would be back to normal. But another part insisted he remain online. Any klik now, Trailbreaker was going to comm him, tell him he was sorry, that he'd made a terrible mistake. If Wheeljack initiated a recharge cycle now, he might miss his ping.

So he waited, listening to the soft, steady hum of his systems as they powered down. His optics flickered.

Any klik now.

x.x.x.x.x

Wheeljack onlined his optics at the completion of his recharge cycle the next morning with the nagging feeling that something…wasn't right.

He checked his internal chronometer. He wasn't late for duty. He had nearly half a joor before he needed to report in, and no current assignments beyond tinkering in his lab.

He was undamaged. His fuel levels were fine.

The room seemed peaceful, dark and quiet. Maybe _too_ quiet. And cold. Shouldn't it be warmer?

He reached out absently across the berth, his fingers seeking…something.

They met only air.

That was when it hit him. He was in his quarters. He was _alone_.

Trailbreaker hadn't commed him.

The memory files of the previous day rose up in his cache, bringing with them a bewildering tangle of emotions he couldn't begin to name. Trailbreaker had been angry with him – no, _he'd_ been angry, Trailbreaker upset. He'd said things. Trailbreaker had said things. And then Trailbreaker had asked him to leave, with a tone of finality that made it clear he didn't expect Wheeljack to return.

His circuits heated with indignation as he recalled Trailbreaker's final demands. He'd given Trailbreaker everything he _could_, made every effort he could think of. He'd given Trailbreaker his time, his attention, free access to his frame. He'd acquiesced to every demand, catered to every whim. He'd even hung out with Hound and Mirage, so that Trailbreaker wouldn't have to feel abandoned and neglected by his best friend.

But it hadn't been enough. Trailbreaker wanted _more_.

It wasn't _fair_. Just because Wheeljack didn't want to uplink with him, or 'face him in public to boost his flagging self-esteem. Just because he didn't feel compelled blurt out every thought that passed through his processor, like _Hound_ –

For that, Trailbreaker had cut him off, thrown him out because Wheeljack refused to bare his spark to him. It wasn't enough that he'd kept Trailbreaker's company, shared his berth, 'faced with him whenever he wanted – Trailbreaker wanted to strip away his armor too, expose him like he had in the 'racks, probe the deepest, most intimate corners of Wheeljack's CPU and plunder all that lay within.

Trailbreaker had made it clear that unless Wheeljack allowed _that_, it was over.

But it was a trap, what Sparkplug called a catch-22. Wheeljack knew if he ever revealed the truth, confessed the dark, shameful secret he'd fought so long to conceal, it'd all be over anyway. The revelation would shatter Trailbreaker's illusions, allow him to see Wheeljack for what he really was – a pathetic, tainted mech more worthy of pity and scorn than admiration or desire.

...and then Trailbreaker wouldn't want him anymore.

His spark clenched painfully at the thought. He huddled in on himself, offlining his optics, curling into a tight, miserable ball on a berth that felt too large, too empty.

It was what he _deserved_.

All this time, he'd been fooling himself. He'd never been worthy. He never would be.

Starscream had ruined him.

That was the fate Wheeljack was doomed to endure; a bleak, solitary existence built on a foundation of lies and deceit, haunted by the echoes of the mech who'd destroyed him.

…except he _hadn't_ been.

The realization made him online his optics and sit up, his spark pulsing with sudden hope.

Last night, there'd been no tormenting visions, no sensor ghosts. He recharged alone for the first time in cycles without interruption. Without fear.

_I don't need him anymore._

It didn't matter that Trailbreaker no longer wanted him. No, it was _better_.

He was _free_.

x.x.x.x.x

Buoyed by his newfound sense of liberation, Wheeljack departed for the washracks with a spring in his step. He didn't really need another cleansing so soon, but it felt _right_, like making a fresh start. He scrubbed himself down with vigor, feeling like he was stripping away old woes instead of the scant amount of dust and grime that had accumulated on his chassis.

From there, he went on to the common room to collect his ration of energon, and afterward headed for his lab, exchanging cheerful greetings with the handful of 'Bots he met along the way.

He felt almost like his old self again.

He checked his task log to see if any special requests had been made of him, for new inventions to assist in their continuing efforts to defeat the 'Cons, but there was nothing new in his queue. All had been quiet on the Decepticon front; there'd been no raids or attacks since the disastrous battle at the electric power plant, when they'd all succumbed to the debilitating effects of cybertonium depletion.

Which meant something was sure to be looming on the horizon. By now Megatron would have seen to the restoration of his troops and was probably already working on another plan to steal Earth's resources or gain a new tactical advantage.

The thought exhilarated Wheeljack. _He'd_ come up with something new too, something that would make the 'Cons think twice the next time they attacked the Autobots or their human allies.

…not a weapon, though. Trailbreaker had been right about that, and Wheeljack had learned his lesson. Any weapon he created could be stolen and turned against them, or used to harm the humans. It had happened with the _Negavator_, the _Immobilizer_ – Pit, even the _Dinobots_ had betrayed them once, tricked by Megatron into attacking Optimus Prime.

The last thing Wheeljack needed was more _guilt_.

_Something defensive, then,_ he thought. He picked up a datapad, settling comfortably at his favorite workstation. He stared at the blank screen for several kliks, but no inspiration came.

_C'mon, Wheeljack!_ he exhorted himself. _Think defensively! The 'Cons can fly – that's an advantage. Maybe something to disrupt their antigravs? Or something that causes their systems to glitch, so they can't fight?_

No. that was still more like a weapon. The 'Cons could steal a device like that and use it against them.

Trailbreaker would probably have some suggestions Wheeljack could explore – he was, after all, a defense strategist. His ideas for applications of the force field Wheeljack had invented had been remarkably innovative; _brilliant_, even –

_I can't ask him now,_ he thought dejectedly. _He doesn't want to talk to me. He couldn't even stand to_ look_ at me._

He shook his helm, pushing back the memory files crowding into his cache. _Focus, Wheeljack,_ he thought. _What about the humans? I could invent something to help them, something useful, like that mini-communicator I made Sparkplug._

That invention had worked perfectly, and had been well-timed, besides. The Decepticons would have no interest in a device with no destructive applications, and the humans would be grateful for anything that made their lives easier. It might even help to make up for all the strife the Autobots had brought to their planet.

But what did the humans _need?_ A time- and labor-saving invention would be best, he surmised. His newfound awareness of their all-too-brief life spans made Wheeljack realize how invaluable such a device would be to the humans. For them, time was a precious commodity.

His thoughts turned to Brad, the human at the fish hatchery who'd acted as their guide. Brad had said that the hatchery had to measure and tag millions of fish every year within a mere handful of orns, a daunting task he'd freely admitted was inefficient and exhausting. Wheeljack had suggested automating the process, and Brad had allowed that it might be possible.

He wasn't sure what exactly "tagging" entailed, but automated measurement would be easy enough. Set up a continuous flow of water between two gathering pools connected by a channel narrow enough that only one fish could pass through at a time, and position a motion-sensitive image capture device at the junction to record each fish's dimensions as they swam through. _Could be done,_ he mused.

He scoffed a little, recalling Hound's reaction when he'd offered to help. It wasn't as if _everything_ he invented blew up. A machine like the one he envisioned wouldn't have any explosive components; the fish would be perfectly fine. Better than fine – Brad had indicated that human handling was bad for them, and Wheeljack's invention would lessen the need for that.

If he invented such a device, Hound would have no choice but to admit he'd been wrong. He'd have to be grateful that Wheeljack had chosen to turn his talents toward something of little interest to him, but of great interest to Hound.

_Trailbreaker_ would appreciate the gesture as it was intended. _He_ didn't automatically assume that anything Wheeljack attempted to build ended up exploding in his faceplate. Trailbreaker had faith in him.

…he just didn't want him anymore.

He shook his helm again, forcing the thought aside. It was a good idea, but too simple for him to pursue. A human engineer could create a similar machine using Earth technology – it wasn't the sort of thing that required Wheeljack's personal attention. He could suggest it to Brad, but he should really be focusing on creating something unique and challenging, something only he could build.

_Something defensive, but impressive,_ he thought. _Think, Wheeljack, think!_

What about Mirage's electro-disruptor? That was one _fancy_ mod, living proof of what a talented engineer could devise when time and expense were of little concern. His own limited contact with the Towers back on Cybertron had left a strong impression on Wheeljack in his youth, given him something to aspire to – prior to the war, all the great inventions had come from Iacon.

Maybe Mirage had heard about some new ideas in the works when he'd lived in the Towers, ideas that were lost when the war broke out, dashing so many mechs' illustrious dreams and forcing them to turn their efforts toward more practical pursuits. Mirage had proved surprisingly candid and willing to talk in their recent interactions – maybe he'd be willing to discuss his recollections with Wheeljack? The former Towers mech would probably enjoy the opportunity to reminisce about his old life, and Wheeljack would have a shot at gaining some fresh ideas.

He was about to comm him when he recalled the promise he'd made to Mirage, to tell Trailbreaker his concerns about Hound's…approach. Wheeljack had given Mirage his word, and at the time he'd fully intended to keep it, planning to broach the topic after he and Trailbreaker interfaced again. But their last conversation had gone in another direction entirely, denying him the opportunity to carry out Mirage's request.

Now he never would.

It galled him to break a promise, even if he'd been forced to by circumstances beyond his control. There was no way he could keep it now – that sort of discussion required a certain level of…intimacy to pursue.

Intimacy he and Trailbreaker no longer shared.

_Stop thinking about him!_ he thought, tossing the datapad away in frustration. _It's over! You don't need him, and he doesn't want you anyway!_

But it was no use; the memory files he'd been fighting to suppress flooded his cache, refusing to be denied. This time Wheeljack couldn't prevent himself from _seeing_ them, seeing all the things he'd been struggling so hard to ignore.

The look of anguish on Trailbreaker's faceplate. The pain in his optics. The hint of static that had crept into his vocalizer as he'd asked – no, _begged_ for Wheeljack to leave.

His spark contracted painfully.

He offlined his optics in a futile effort to shut out the images assailing him, his hands clenching into fists. It wasn't his fault; he hadn't _wanted_ to leave – he'd had no _choice!_ Trailbreaker had unwittingly given him an ultimatum, one that would lead to the same inevitable conclusion regardless of whether Wheeljack refused or complied. Leave him, or be left –

His comm pinged, making him jump. He opened a channel. _*Yeah?*_ he asked hesitantly.

_*Wheeljack,*_ Optimus Prime said in response to his tentative query, _*Please report to Command. The Decepticons are at it again.*_

_*Yes sir,*_ he said, _*I'm on my way.*_ He rose from his seat as he spoke, closing the link as he headed for the door. As he'd predicted, Megatron hadn't allowed the ground to corrode under his feet. The Decepticons were obviously up to their old tricks.

He was grateful for the distraction. The Decepticons could be overcome, with the right solution.

His own dilemma had none.

x.x.x.x.x

"What does a _voltronic galaxer_ do, exactly?" he asked.

"It's a long-range communications device," Optimus explained. "The humans created it as a means to discover if there was life on other planets."

Wheeljack had reported to Command as ordered. Upon his arrival, Optimus Prime had immediately begun to brief him on the situation. Megatron had stolen another human invention, this voltronic galaxer thing, for some as-yet-unknown purpose. A group of Autobots had gone to try and stop him, but they'd arrived too late to prevent the Decepticons from escaping with the device.

Now they were trying to find it, hopefully before Megatron had a chance to put it to nefarious use. Optimus Prime had already ordered a search, but without knowledge of Megatron's probable intent, their efforts were largely directionless. He'd commed Wheeljack to speculate on what Megatron might be planning.

Unfortunately, Wheeljack had no real answers to give. A human-invented long-range communications device wasn't the sort of thing Megatron would normally be inclined to steal. Only a few breems ago, Wheeljack had naïvely assumed the 'Cons would consider such a thing to be useless. But in Megatron's hands, _anything_ could be potentially dangerous, and the mere fact that he'd taken the galaxer meant the Decepticon tyrant had something specific in mind.

"If that's all it does, it's unlikely he could use it as a weapon," he said. "A device like that could jam radio frequencies, but its range would be extremely limited. To have an impact over a larger area, Megatron would need a powerful long-range transmitter, and an energy source to run it. The humans don't have that kind of technology; nothing on Earth would be strong enough."

"Perhaps it's not Earth technology he intends to use," Optimus said.

"Has he stolen anything else? Or had something sent over the space bridge from Cybertron?" he asked. "Maybe he means to build it himself. The voltronic galaxer could be the final component."

"Teletraan-1 hasn't detected any space bridge activity," Prime replied, "and the humans haven't reported any recent Decepticon attacks."

"Maybe the voltronic galaxer is only the first component," he mused. "We should keep an optic out for any signs that he might be trying to get the rest."

"If that's his plan, why would he go for the galaxer first?" Jazz asked. He'd been among the group of Autobots who'd gone to investigate the theft, and was present in Command when Wheeljack arrived, along with Ratchet, Hoist, Ironhide and Prime. "If a jammin' device is the only thing he could use it for, why not go for the more generic components first? Stealing the galaxer is like announcing to us what he's up to."

"Maybe he's already got 'em," Ironhide said. "He coulda had this plan in the works for awhile, had ol' Shockwave send over the stuff he needed ages ago, maybe along with the cybertonium."

Optimus nodded. "Megatron could have managed to get hold of the other items more covertly," he agreed. "If that's the case, he would have saved the voltronic galaxer for last, knowing its theft would attract our attention, but that by then it would be too late for us to stop him."

"He still has to build it somewhere," Wheeljack pointed out. "And it won't be small, either."

Optimus stepped forward, activating Teletraan-1's viewscreen. "Huffer, Tracks, report. Any sign of Decepticon interference?"

"Negative, Prime," Huffer replied.

"Well, keep checking," Optimus said, "and stay in contact." He closed the link, and opened another. "Powerglide, Spike, report."

"No sign of Decepticons _or_ the voltronic galaxer," Spike responded, sounding frustrated.

"And we've been halfway around the hemisphere," Carly added.

Hearing her voice made Wheeljack look up; he hadn't realized Carly had decided to pay them another visit. "Hey, Carly," he greeted her. "Good to see you again."

She smiled at him. "You too, Wheeljack," she replied. "Wish it were under better circumstances."

Optimus continued to contact each of the remaining 'Bots on patrol in turn, but none reported detecting any Decepticon activity, or seeing any trace of the voltronic galaxer. Prime told them all to continue searching, and to report in immediately if they spied anything that looked like a possible jamming station. That accomplished, he turned back to address the Autobots in Command still awaiting his orders.

"Wheeljack," Prime said, "I want you to work on a countermeasure, in case Megatron succeeds in building his jamming device before we're able to locate him."

"Right, Optimus," he said, glancing uncertainly at the other officers gathered around them.

"Everyone else, remain vigilant," Prime told the rest of the group. "We'll need to move quickly if the patrols spot anything, or Megatron makes his move."

"You got it, Prime," Ironhide replied.

"You can count on us, Boss 'Bot," Jazz agreed.

Wheeljack turned to leave, intent on heading back to his lab. As he made his way to the door, he heard Ratchet grumble, "Stuck on standby again. I was looking forward to getting out of repair bay for a change, but so far this day's been a dud."

"Be glad it has," Hoist replied. "If there'd been more for us to do this morning, we'd have more to do in the repair bay now."

"Yeah, true," Ratchet acceded. "And the day's not over yet. We might still get a chance to kick some Decepticon skidplate."

Ratchet's words stayed with him as Wheeljack made his way down the corridor to his lab. He hadn't seen much combat lately, either. He'd been assigned a lot of monitor duty, built a few new gadgets, but he'd only been called into battle on a handful of occasions.

He'd been sort of grateful for that. He couldn't deny he'd performed poorly the last few times he'd been ordered to fight. But Ratchet's idle comment had made him realize just how _often_ he'd been assigned another task while the other Autobots were sent out to fight the 'Cons.

Just like _this_ time.

It was his current assignment, too. Something about it rang…false. Technically speaking, there _was_ no countermeasure for a jamming device – any attempt to jam the jamming signal would be, well, _jammed_. The only way to defeat such a device was to deactivate or destroy it.

For that, they needed to _locate_ it first.

It seemed unlikely Optimus had failed to realize that. With the knowledge contained within the Matrix of leadership and his own extensive experience, Prime _had_ to be aware that a communications-jamming device was _in itself_ a countermeasure, and therefore _couldn't_ be countered with another.

He'd ordered Wheeljack to work on one anyway.

Optimus knew what had happened to him. Had he also noticed how Wheeljack reacted in battle when Starscream appeared? Was Prime deliberately giving him assignments that would keep him out of combat and away from the Decepticon who'd assaulted him?

As he keyed in the locking code and entered his lab, Wheeljack tried to decide how he felt about that. On the one hand, he was grateful to Optimus for his concern. It felt good to know Prime cared enough to want to spare him further trauma. But on the other, the fact that Optimus Prime had gone to such lengths to keep him on the _Ark_ implied that his commander thought such an act was _necessary_ – and that pricked Wheeljack's pride.

He was _fine_. He may not have been in top form, but he wasn't a human or some fragile sparkling, too weak to fight or defend himself. Wheeljack could accept being given more monitor duty, or being asked to build more gadgets than usual – those assignments utilized his skills, allowing him to contribute to the Autobot cause – but this latest task felt more like a diversion, a pointless endeavor meant to keep him out of the way while other 'Bots did the _real_ work.

The thought made him grumble resentfully as he sank into his chair.

He'd been _sidelined_.

He shook his helm, feeling frustrated and torn. A part of him wanted to confront Optimus, to protest his unfair exclusion, but the thought of actually doing it gave him pause. What if it was all just a coincidence? He wasn't entirely sure his suspicions were correct. Perhaps Prime had merely been distracted, or was sincerely unaware that he'd effectively asked Wheeljack to deliver the impossible.

If he was wrong, and Prime was innocent, objecting would make Wheeljack look as paranoid as Red Alert, accusing his own commander of conspiring against him. The unfounded accusation would make Wheeljack look _more_ unstable, not less.

If he was right, then he could at least appreciate Prime's discretion. If Optimus was indeed quietly rearranging the duty schedule to ensure that Wheeljack was kept out of combat, he was doing it subtly enough to avoid arousing the suspicions of even the wariest of Autobots, mechs like Red Alert and Prowl. Complaining about Prime's well-intentioned efforts to shield him would be the very height of ingratitude.

But even so, Wheeljack couldn't allow such treatment to go on indefinitely. He may have needed that degree of consideration initially, but he was fine now, and Prime needed to know that. It wasn't fair to ask the others to take risks he himself didn't have to face, and their cause would hardly be served by Wheeljack contributing less than he was able.

Maybe a confrontation was exactly what Optimus Prime was hoping for? Optimus would never order one of his soldiers into a situation he wasn't sure that mech could handle; it wasn't in his nature. He might simply be waiting for Wheeljack to step up and tell him he was ready to resume his normal duties. If he didn't, Optimus would continue to assume he wasn't.

There was no time to talk to him about it now, not with Megatron actively pursuing what was undoubtedly another plan to defeat the Autobots once and for all, but that didn't mean he couldn't arrange an appointment to speak with Prime later, once the 'Cons had been defeated and things had calmed down.

He opened a comm link – and got only static.

x.x.x.x.x

That was it, then. Megatron had obviously succeeded in getting the components he needed to build his jamming station, and had set his plan into motion. The fact that Wheeljack's comm system was no longer functioning was no mere coincidence.

He tested it a few more times, just to be sure. He tried contacting Optimus again, then Ratchet, then Prowl and Jazz. Finally he linked to Teletraan-1 via his workstation console and confirmed what he already knew – all communications systems were down, jammed by an outside signal.

He huffed through his vents in frustration. There was nothing he could do. Even if he'd been able to invent something to solve the problem, he had no way of _telling_ anyone he'd done it.

He spent a few breems staring at a datapad anyway, just to satisfy his sense of duty. No solutions came to him. He pulled up a bookfile instead, tried to read, but after a quarter joor he gave up on that, too. He paced. He sifted through the assortment of spare parts and components scattered across his workstation, dug up some old projects he'd abandoned, but within half a joor it was painfully evident why he'd given up on them in the first place.

Finally, in desperation, he tackled the daunting task of cleaning his lab. He killed several joors doing that, putting everything away, but in the end, when every last tool had been consigned to its proper place and surfaces he hadn't seen in an orn gleamed unhelpfully back at him, Wheeljack was forced to admit defeat.

He slumped into his chair, pulling the energon cube he'd acquired earlier from his subspace compartment. Sure, he could go out and wander the corridors, maybe check in with Command, but what would be the point? By now the other 'Bots on duty were long gone, out looking for Megatron's jamming station, maybe even already fighting the 'Cons in an effort to disable it.

In either case, Optimus Prime clearly hadn't wanted Wheeljack among them.

His processor began to wander as he sipped sullenly from his cube. He felt restless, irritable. He reached up to rub his neck cables in aggravation, and was startled by the responding flush of _heat_ that surged through his systems, accompanied by a brief sensor-echo of Trailbreaker's mouth scraping across the smooth metal.

He jerked his hand away, panting through his intakes in an effort to lower his abruptly skyrocketing core temperature.

He didn't want _that_. He couldn't have it anyway.

Not anymore.

But that didn't stop his treacherous CPU from pulling up still _more_ memory files. Trailbreaker's hands, moving lovingly over his chassis, seeking out his most sensitive circuitry. The low, ardent rumbling of his engine. The solid, reassuring weight of him, pressing him into the berth. His deep voice whispering his name, telling Wheeljack how much he wanted him.

_Stop it!_ he thought desperately, offlining his optics. _Stop thinking about him! It's over!_

He shoved the images aside, forcing them to the back of his processor by reciting meaningless equations, calling up technical schematics and logic puzzles to divert himself from the growing sensation of _need_ suffusing his frame.

_You don't need him,_ he told himself calmly, stubbornly ignoring the persistent hum of his rapidly cycling fans. _You never really wanted him in the first place. It was just an experiment. It just…happened._

_He doesn't want you_, he reminded himself, carefully setting his cube aside.

He got to his feet stiffly, leaning over the table and gripping the edges tightly, fighting for calm.

_It's just a standard autonomic response,_ he told himself. _Your systems have become accustomed to frequent overloads. It's perfectly normal. It doesn't mean anything. It'll go away._

The metal was beginning to distort beneath his fingers, but he didn't dare let go. His circuits were burning, _aching_ to be touched. He squeezed harder, his intakes hitching as the sensors in his hands registered the increased input, his internal fans kicking up another notch.

_No_, he thought firmly. _No_.

His hands clenched harder, until the only sensation was pain. He stood like that for nearly a breem, tense and trembling, fighting for control, willing himself back from the brink to a point where the urge to surrender no longer seemed undeniable.

His grip on the table eased as his core temperature dropped back to normal levels and his fans subsided, the rhythmic sound of his laboring intakes gradually being overtaken by the steady _tick-tick-tick_ of rapidly-heated metal cooling. Only then did he straighten, releasing his hold.

He had to get out of here.

But where could he go? His quarters would be just as bad. The washracks would be worse.

_Repair bay,_ he thought decisively. Someone would be on duty there. Maybe Ratchet and the others had returned by now, having given up their search for Megatron's jamming station. Or maybe they'd found it, and incurred damage in the ensuing battle.

He tested his comm, placing a status inquiry with Teletraan-1.

It was live. Teletraan informed him that Megatron's moon base – Megatron had been on the _moon?_ – had been conquered, his plan foiled. The other Autobots had been back for over a joor. Several had been injured.

They'd won. And they needed him.

x.x.x.x.x

The repair bay was deserted.

Wheeljack paused just beyond the threshold, looking around in confusion. He'd expected to find the bay a bustle of activity, but instead all was quiet. The repair berths lay unoccupied, the workstations unmanned.

He was about to contact Teletraan-1 again when a flicker of movement caught his optic and the faint hiss of a door opening reached his audials.

Ratchet stepped out of his office, his helm bowed, his optics on the scrap of polishing cloth he was using to wipe his hands. He glanced up as he proceeded across the bay, and spied Wheeljack standing by the door.

"'Jack," he said in surprise. "What's up? Everything all right?"

"I should be asking you that," he replied. "Where is everyone? Teletraan said there were injuries."

"There were," Ratchet said. "We just finished patching everyone up."

"We..?"

"Hoist and I," Ratchet explained.

Wheeljack stared at him, feeling strangely hurt. "Why didn't you comm me?"

"Didn't need to," Ratchet said with a shrug. "The damages were minor; mostly scrapes and dings. Prime was the only one who needed major repairs."

"Optimus was hurt?" he asked worriedly.

"Yeah, but he's fine now," Ratchet said. "I released him about a breem ago."

"Oh," he said, making his way to the nearest berth. There were some tools scattered on the tray beside it; evidence of recent repair work. He began gathering them up, diffidently.

Ratchet moved to join him, assisting him in his efforts. "Quite a day," he said conversationally.

"Yeah," he agreed, tossing a laser scalpel into a drawer. Not that he'd actually _done_ anything. He might as well have been off duty, for all he'd accomplished.

"I guess you got the fight you wanted," he said after a moment.

"Not really," Ratchet replied dismissively, his attention on the set of hex wrenches he was carefully arranging into their respective cubbyholes. "Prime, Powerglide and Omega got to do all the real fighting. We just got shot at and buried in an avalanche."

"Avalanche?" he asked, glancing over his shoulder-strut at his friend, a pair of wire strippers in hand.

"Yeah," Ratchet said. "Went out to help some humans who'd gotten stuck up in the mountains. With Megatron jamming all the radio signals, they missed the bad weather warning."

He cocked his helm, eyeing his friend quizzically. "And they _shot_ at you?" he asked incredulously.

Ratchet laughed. "No, the Decepticons did," he said, "and then brought half the mountain down on top of us."

"Oh," he said, turning back to shove the strippers in alongside a pair of socket wrenches.

"But we saved the humans," Ratchet said, sounding pleased. "In a way, it was a good thing. After they buried us, the 'Cons took off. All we had to do was dig ourselves out and get the humans to a hospital."

"So no one was hurt?"

"Not a scratch," Ratchet confirmed proudly, returning a circuit tester to its drawer.

He nodded, stowing the last of the remaining tools in their designated storage compartments.

There was a brief silence before Ratchet spoke again. "Actually…it might not have gone so well if Trailbreaker hadn't been there. He used his force field to shield us all. Saved a lot of humans' lives, and took a hit doing it."

"Oh," he said, feeling abruptly uncomfortable.

Ratchet cycled a sigh. "He's a good mech, 'Jack," he said. "I hope you know what you're doing."

His spark twisted in its chamber. "Trailbreaker doesn't think so," he said bitterly.

Ratchet seemed startled. "What do you mean?"

He huffed irritably. "Just what I said," he replied curtly. "It's over."

He met Ratchet's optics then, saw the stunned expression on his friend's faceplate.

"You ended it?" Ratchet asked hopefully.

"No," he said, shutting the drawer with more force than was necessary. "He did."

"Primus," Ratchet said softly. "You finally told him."

He started, stiffening. "No." Ratchet's reaction was a grim confirmation of his fears. Even _Ratchet_ knew how disgusted Trailbreaker would be. "I'm not _that_ stupid."

Ratchet was silent for a klik, mulling over this new information. "He wanted to uplink with you," he guessed. "You said no."

_More or less._ "Yeah."

Ratchet laid a comforting hand on his shoulder-strut. "I'm sorry, 'Jack," he said. "But it's for the best."

His spark twisted again. "Yeah, I guess," he agreed.

"I know you were 'facing with him," Ratchet said quietly. "Not just the one time. After that."

It seemed pointless to lie. Ratchet had seen the proof in Trailbreaker's energy levels. "Yeah."

Ratchet hesitated. "Did you want to?" he asked gently.

He shrugged uncomfortably, avoiding his gaze. "I guess so," he said.

"Oh, _'Jack_," Ratchet whispered, his vocalizer thick with sorrow.

Suddenly Ratchet's arms were wrapped tightly around him, pulling him close in a fierce hug. Wheeljack tensed at first, but Ratchet's plating was warm, not hot, so he relaxed into his embrace.

"Why are you doing this to yourself, Wheeljack?" Ratchet asked brokenly, his words muffled against Wheeljack's shoulder-strut. "Is your pride really worth so much?"

He pulled back sharply, breaking free of his friend's hold. "What are you talking about?" he demanded.

Ratchet gave him a disappointed look. "You know what I'm talking about," he said sadly. "Why would you let him do that to you, 'Jack?"

He stared at him in shock. Was Ratchet suggesting –? "It wasn't like that," he protested, his circuits heating with offense. Trailbreaker would _never –!_ He had _asked!_

"Wasn't it?" Ratchet asked. "You said it was awful, 'Jack. Remember?"

"It was, that – that first time," he admitted, shrugging uncomfortably. "Not after."

Ratchet frowned, studying him thoughtfully, an obnoxiously _clinical_ look on his faceplate. "Are you sure about that?" he asked.

He huffed in irritation. "Come on, Ratch, I'm not _that_ pathetic," he retorted. "It's not like I rolled off the assembly line yesterday – I've got a few miles on my odometer! I 'faced with _you_, didn't I? Did you _make_ me?"

Ratchet seemed taken aback. "No," he conceded softly. "You – you seemed okay with it." He lowered his gaze a moment, then glanced up again, warily meeting Wheeljack's optics. "_Were_ you okay with it, 'Jack?" he asked quietly.

"Sure," he said. "I told you I didn't mind. At least, not until you –"

"Yeah," Ratchet said, interrupting him. "I'm so sorry, 'Jack. You have no idea how sorry I am, how much I hated myself for –"

"It's okay," he said, cutting off his apology. "I understand. I forgive you, Ratch."

He was a little surprised by Ratchet's contrition. How could he _not_ forgive him? He may not have liked what Ratchet had done, but he understood now why he'd done it. Ratchet had wanted him, even though he knew about…everything. Wheeljack had forgotten that. It felt…good, to know _someone_ did, after what Starscream had –

Ratchet pulled out his polishing cloth again, wiping down the tray they'd cleared. "I'm glad," he admitted. "For a while there, I wasn't sure you ever would."

"I do dumb impulsive things all the time," he pointed out. "It's only fair you get a turn, too."

Ratchet looked up at him with a smirk. "Oh, yeah?" he asked wryly. "Do I get one for each one of yours?"

His optics widened in alarm. That was a joke, right?

Ratchet laughed at his expression. "C'mon, you stubborn aft," he said, elbowing him in the chestplate. "We're done here."

x.x.x.x.x

They headed back to the officer's section together, walking side by side, trading jokes and playful insults. It was just like old times, like the tension between them had never existed. Wheeljack felt almost normal.

…almost.

Ratchet's questions about Trailbreaker had gotten him thinking. They nagged at the back of his processor, persistent and troubling. He _had_ been willing; of that, he was sure. Trailbreaker may have always been the one to get things rolling in that direction, but Wheeljack hadn't been all that inclined to protest when they had. Trailbreaker had asked. He'd said yes.

Come to think of it, there _had_ been a couple of times where he'd said no. Trailbreaker had always listened, never pressured him for more. The suggestion that he _hadn't_, that Wheeljack had had no choice in the matter, was undeniably untrue.

He'd never felt used by Trailbreaker. He'd felt…_desired_. _Wanted_.

He felt his circuits heating at the thought, and quickly quashed it. It didn't matter _how_ he'd felt. Trailbreaker didn't really want _him_. He wanted the _old_ Wheeljack, the strong, capable mech he used to be. The confident one, the one that was never afraid.

What Trailbreaker wanted was a lie. The truth would repel him.

Ratchet halted abruptly, shaking Wheeljack from his thoughts. Looking up, he realized they'd arrived outside the CMO's personal quarters.

"Good night, 'Jack," Ratchet said. "Get some recharge; I'll see you in the morning."

He activated his vocalizer to bid his friend farewell, but all that came out was, "…why wait?"

Ratchet had turned to enter his quarters, but he paused at Wheeljack's words, half-turning to look back at him. "What?"

Wheeljack lowered his gaze, studying the deckplating at his feet. "I could come with you," he offered.

Silence.

After an agonizing handful of astroseconds, he risked a glance upward, meeting Ratchet's optics.

Ratchet was shaking his helm, regarding him sadly. "'Jack –" he began.

Wheeljack's spark clenched at his tone, at the expression on Ratchet's faceplate. Ratchet was going to say no. He was going to refuse his offer, leaving Wheeljack to return to his too-empty quarters alone, to confront the thoughts he'd spent the entire day struggling to avoid. "You gonna turn me down again, Ratch?" he asked reproachfully.

"Is that what you want?" Ratchet asked. "What you _really_ want?"

A sudden surge of doubt and uncertainty welled up in his spark. Ratchet _did_ want him, didn't he? He'd wanted him all along, or at least he'd _said_ he did. Even after the way Wheeljack had treated him, even though he knew what Starscream had done –

"No," he said finally, shaking his helm. "I mean, yeah, I want – it should have been you, Ratch. It always should have been you. That's what I wanted from the beginning. You were my first choice."

Ratchet didn't respond immediately. For a klik he just stared at him, giving Wheeljack the uneasy impression the medic was looking straight through him, seeing all the way to his spark.

He ducked his helm, his servos tightening in apprehension. What if he'd been wrong? What if Ratchet _didn't_ want him? What if no one did?

He wanted to extend his energy field, to prove to Ratchet that he was serious, but he couldn't bring himself to do it, not even a little bit. Not if Ratchet was just going to reject him anyway. It had been humiliating enough the _last_ time.

He'd thought for sure Ratchet would say yes then, but Ratchet had said no, just like he was going to say no _this_ time. That night in his office had just been a glitch; Ratchet's claim that he'd wanted him for vorns nothing more than a polite effort to reassure him. He'd probably only said it so Wheeljack wouldn't be angry at him anymore.

It was galling, to realize he'd made the same mistake twice. He'd gone and made a fool of himself in front of Ratchet _again_. How could he have been so stupid? Ratchet didn't want him, any more than Trailbreaker did! Why couldn't he get that through his slow processor?

"Forget it," he said, shaking his helm in defeat. "Never mind. Forget I said anything."

With that, he turned to leave, to go back to his empty quarters and recharge alone. Maybe in time, he'd get used to it.

Ratchet caught hold of his hand, his thumb tracing lightly over Wheeljack's wrist-joint.

"I'd love to," Ratchet said with a smile.

x.x.x.x.x

It felt strange, actually being _inside_ Ratchet's quarters.

He'd visited them before, of course, but not often, just as Ratchet rarely visited his. The majority of their interactions took place in the repair bay, or in his lab – they both spent so much time working, both on and off duty, that those places were more "home" to them than the personal quarters they'd been assigned.

Ratchet's looked about like he remembered from the last time he'd seen them; tidier than his own, but still slightly cluttered, stacks of datapads, a few personal items and the odd tool Ratchet had been too busy to put away occupying the shelves and workstation. Ratchet recharged here, and that was all.

Well…not _entirely_ all.

He glanced over at him uncertainly, feeling vaguely awkward.

"Are you sure this is what you want, 'Jack?" Ratchet asked after Wheeljack finished looking around and met his gaze.

He huffed through his vents, mildly annoyed by his tone. "Are you going to keep asking me that all night?" he asked irritably.

"I just want to be sure," Ratchet replied reasonably.

A wave of frustration mingled with despair washed over him. He sat down heavily on the berth, glaring at his own feet like they'd personally offended him. "It's never gonna go away, is it?" he said bitterly. "It's never gonna be _over_ – he's _always_ going to be there! You're not even seeing me, are you? All you see is _him_, and what he _did_ to me."

He heard the sound of metal shifting, and Ratchet's hand came to rest on his shoulder, compelling him to lift his gaze and meet his optics.

Ratchet was smiling, his expression a familiar blend of fond indulgence and genuine affection. "Has anyone ever told you you're cute when you're angry?" he asked.

His vocal indicators flickered in indignation, but before his vocalizer could catch up with them, Ratchet's energy field enveloped him, hot and immediate. His intakes hitched at the sensation, his own field extending instinctively to meet it, matching Ratchet's frequency.

Ratchet joined him on the berth, urging him back and down, his fingers seeking out the gaps in Wheeljack's plating that guarded his most sensitive circuitry with an air of confident self-assurance that was very…_Ratchet_.

It stood to reason, really – Ratchet was a medic, and had taken almost as many mechs to berth as he had attended in repair bay. Based on what Ratchet was doing with his energy field, Wheeljack doubted a single one of them had been left wanting.

Not wanting to be outdone, he sent a series of pulses through his own energy field, lifting his hands to touch Ratchet in return. He had access to the medical files, too, and had done a fair number of repairs on Ratchet personally – he could give as good as he got. Ratchet's hands were occupied in a task he was loath to interrupt, so he pressed his fingertips beneath Ratchet's bumper instead, stroking aggressively.

He was rewarded with a low moan and a renewed fusillade of field pulses, and suddenly it seemed as if Ratchet's hands were _everywhere_, making him arch up off the berth, his engine revving, his circuits heating rapidly.

"You're not," he gasped as he slumped back, a little embarrassed by his own reaction. The charge that had built up in his circuits earlier hadn't fully dissipated, and he was heating up _fast_. "You look like Motormaster when you're fragged off – after a head-on collision with Prime."

Ratchet froze, his hands halting in their movement. "You cocky little glitch," he said indignantly, the roar of his engine belying his offended tone. "You are _so_ going to get it."

"Bring it on," he challenged, grabbing one of Ratchet's hands and dragging his fingertips over the palm, making Ratchet jerk and cry out above him. "I know all the same tricks you do, Ratch."

Ratchet's engine revved lustily, and then he was shoving his energy field into him again, making Wheeljack stiffen and whimper in the resulting surge of ecstasy. "You're gonna eat those words," he promised, pulling his hand free of Wheeljack's pleasure-slackened grip and wrapping it around his right sensor-winglet, squeezing firmly as he caressed upwards along its length.

He activated his vocalizer to issue an appropriately mocking reply, but his is retort was swallowed by the groan of pleasure that escaped him in response to Ratchet's touch. He reached down to seize hold of Ratchet's hip plate anyway, digging his fingers into the gap and tugging the bundle of wires within while his other hand launched a similar attack on Ratchet's shoulder-joint, transmitting another set of rapid pulses through his energy field.

The way Ratchet's backstruts bowed in response was immensely satisfying.

Still quivering in reaction, Ratchet leaned over him, his plating positively searing where it came into contact with his own, their chestplates scraping hard enough to swap paint. Wheeljack almost objected, but then realized no one would be able to tell anyway. It felt too good to protest, regardless.

Ratchet's energy field flared, seeming to cut right through him, setting his circuits ablaze, and his hands began moving again, stimulating what seemed like every sensor node Wheeljack possessed.

Why hadn't he done this before? It was _good_ with Ratchet, really good, sharp and intense and processor-blowing –

Maybe a little _too_ intense.

Ratchet was a lot more direct in his approach to 'facing than Trailbreaker had been, his efforts to stimulate Wheeljack's most sensitive components more focused and deliberate. There was something almost…unnerving about how _precisely_ Ratchet manipulated his responses, urging him ever closer to the brink –

A sudden flash of anxiety coiled through his spark as an image of other hands – sky-blue hands, similarly engaged – flickered through his processor. His intakes hitched, and not in pleasure.

"Slow down, Ratch," he entreated, striving to maintain their previous tone of playful derision and only partially succeeding, hating the way his vocalizer quavered over the words. "I'm not going anywhere."

Ratchet paused, looking down at him in surprise, meeting his half-pleading gaze. Wheeljack suppressed the urge to squirm beneath the all too knowing look Ratchet gave him as comprehension lit his optics.

"Sorry, 'Jack," Ratchet said contritely. "You're right; there's no reason to rush this." Then he grinned. "So, does this mean you concede defeat?"

He stared at him for a moment in disbelief, and then scoffed. "You haven't overloaded me _yet_," he pointed out. He was actually pretty close, but he wasn't about to admit it. "I could still fry your circuits."

"Mmmm," Ratchet purred suggestively, his optics flashing. "Yes, please."

Optics narrowing, Wheeljack answered his challenge, seizing hold of Ratchet's hands and dragging them down, pressing them flat against his sides and revving his engine _hard_, sending his tachometer screaming into the red. Ratchet's mouth opened in a silent shriek of ecstasy as the onslaught of vibrations tore through his hands, igniting his sensor nodes with pleasure. He jerked against him, but Wheeljack held him in place, thrusting his energy field into him again and again, prolonging Ratchet's overload until the medic slumped over him, limbs twitching with the fading charge.

He chuckled smugly. "You're welcome."

Ratchet grumbled something against his chestplate, but the words were lost amid a crackle of static. Wheeljack chuckled again, feeling pleased with himself.

After a few kliks, Ratchet recovered enough to push himself upright. "Primus, Wheeljack," he said shakily. "Where in the Pit did you learn _that?_"

He sounded so incredulous Wheeljack was almost offended. "You don't have to sound so shocked," he said indignantly. "It's not like I've never done this before. I've had my engine turned a few times."

Ratchet's optics flashed. "Not tonight you haven't," he purred lasciviously. "I think it's high time I corrected that oversight."

His tone sent a tiny shiver up Wheeljack's backstrut, an uneasy combination of apprehension and anticipation. He wanted to tell Ratchet to go easy on him, to not to get too carried away, but his pride wouldn't allow him vocalize the request. He didn't want Ratchet to think he was nervous.

Fortunately, Ratchet _did_ go slower when he began touching him again, if only because his circuits were still hyper-sensitized by his recent overload. He caressed Wheeljack's chestplate with the backs of his hands instead of his palms, gazing down at him with glowing optics, his expression rapt with desire.

"You're incredible, 'Jack," Ratchet whispered. "As long as I've known you, you still manage to surprise me."

He scoffed a little, mildly embarrassed by the compliment. "What can I say?" he replied playfully. "I'm just that good."

"You _are_," Ratchet agreed, reaching down to fondle his hip plate. His fingers dipped into the seam, making Wheeljack groan as Ratchet caressed the wires within. "You're brilliant, talented, amazing in the berth –"

"C'mon, Ratch, lighten up," he muttered, his circuits heating with chagrin. A little flattery was nice, but Ratchet was taking it a bit far. The uncharacteristically effusive adulation was making him sort of uncomfortable. It was such a departure from the gruff, cantankerous medic Wheeljack knew, a mech more inclined toward wry taunts and back-handed compliments than open admiration.

"You're wonderful," Ratchet insisted, grinding against him, his hands moving more urgently, "and you always will be. Nothing can change that, 'Jack, not ever. _Nothing_."

Wheeljack's spark sank as he realized what Ratchet was getting at. He was talking about _that_, reminding him even now of his tainted and broken status. Suddenly all the flowery palaver made sense.

An inexplicable surge of hostility shot through him. "Pit, Ratch," he said scornfully. "Does that sort of slag usually work for you?"

Ratchet stiffened as if he'd been struck, a look of hurt flashing through his optics.

A thread of guilt coiled through Wheeljack's spark, but not enough to assuage his anger. "Give it a rest, will you?" he said peevishly. "You're supposed to be fragging me, not blowing smoke up my tailpipe."

"Sorry, 'Jack," Ratchet replied in a cowed tone.

It was hard to get back in the mood after that; he was too annoyed at Ratchet to appreciate his efforts to pleasure him, even after his friend wised up and muted his vocalizer. Finally he just offlined his optics and focused on the sensation of Ratchet's hands moving over his frame, on the steady throb and pulse of his energy field, and let his processor wander.

It was weird, the way he'd reacted to Ratchet's blandishments. Ratchet's attempt to grease his gears hadn't been all that different from the sort of things Trailbreaker said to him when they were 'facing, things he'd found highly arousing at the time, yet somehow, Ratchet's words had had the opposite effect.

He supposed it was because it was _Ratchet_ who'd been saying them. Trailbreaker was a direct, plain-spoken, forthright sort of mech; when he said something, it was easy to believe he meant it. Ratchet was the opposite, prone to jibes and insults that over the decacycles Wheeljack had come to understand were a sign of affection from the crotchety medic. It wasn't that he doubted Ratchet _cared_ – he knew better – but he also knew his friend too well to not become suspicious when Ratchet started acting uncharacteristically _nice_.

Ratchet chose that moment to stroke along his sensitive sideseams, and Wheeljack groaned, clinging to his shoulder-struts as he arched into his touch, surrendering to the sensations washing over him. Trailbreaker's compliments had always sounded so _sincere_, filled with ardent, undisguised admiration and echoed by touches that bordered on worshipful. Even the way Trailbreaker said his _name_ heated Wheeljack's circuits, his deep voice rumbling in counterpoint to his roaring engine –

His overload took him almost by surprise; one moment he was seething with resentment over Ratchet's patronizing, over-cautious treatment of him, and the next he was crying out, thrust over the moon and catapulted into ecstasy, his vocal indicators flashing in time with the rippling waves of electricity crackling over his frame.

He fell back panting, his intakes laboring, his vents cycling rapidly. That had been…surprisingly _good_.

He onlined his optics as Ratchet gathered him into his arms, gratefully meeting his optics. "Thanks, Ratch," he said. "That was nice."

"Anytime, 'Jack," Ratchet replied wryly.


	29. Alone

**Title: **After Atlantis  
**Obligatory Disclaimer:** I don't own Transformers. This chapter contains references to the G1 cartoon episode_ "The Golden Lagoon."_  
**Warnings: **PTSD angst, references to rape, references to sex, sexual situations.  
**Author's Note: **A little nervous about posting this chapter. Half of you will probably hate me for it, and the rest will wonder why the heck things still seem to be getting worse instead of better. This is how it's gotta roll out, folks – it's time to start tying up the loose ends. Only three chapters left! Thanks for reading!

**Chapter 29: Alone**

Wheeljack emerged from recharge as his cycle completed, slowly regaining awareness of his surroundings as his systems rebooted.

He checked his internal chronometer, and discovered he'd completed his recharge cycle ahead of schedule. His usual alert notification wasn't set to rouse him for another half a joor.

He stretched his servos and settled into a more comfortable position, venting a contented sigh. He wasn't assigned to duty today, which meant he could relax and take his time. Right now, he felt more like just lying here for a breem or two than getting up and refueling. He chuckled a bit at his own laziness.

Gradually he became aware of the soft hum of working systems other than his own and realized he wasn't alone. A faint flush of warmth suffused his spark as he reached out to touch the mech recharging beside him.

He yanked his hand back in surprise when his fingers encountered the cool glass of a windshield instead of the smooth, sloping curve of warm metal he'd been expecting. He sat up quickly, onlining his optics.

Ratchet lay on the berth next to him, turned slightly on his side. Relief flooded Wheeljack's systems as he recognized the familiar red-and-white form of his best friend. The previous night's memory files returned to his cache, and he recalled where he was and how he'd come to be there.

They'd interfaced. Last night. Him and Ratchet.

It felt strange just thinking it. _Him_. And _Ratchet_.

Shaking his helm, he eased back down on the berth. Last night had been…okay. He'd gotten a little unnerved, sure, a little annoyed when Ratchet started treating him more like a patient than a berthmate, but overall it hadn't been bad. He'd overloaded; so had Ratchet.

In a way, it seemed fitting. As close as they were, the fact that they'd gone so long without interfacing was more unusual than the fact that they finally had; a definite departure from the norm. Granted, they'd 'faced once before, that night in Ratchet's office, but that had been a spur-of-the-moment sort of thing, a freak occurrence neither of them had planned or expected. Last night had been different, the result of a deliberate, mutual decision.

A decision they might easily choose to repeat.

And that seemed okay, too. Ratchet was his best friend, after all. They'd known each other for vorns, and Ratchet had always stood by him. That counted for something. Good friends looked after one another, helped each other out.

Ratchet had never seemed to need Wheeljack in that context before; his friend had always had an abundance of partners to choose from, all of them quite willing and eager to satisfy his needs. Wheeljack had assumed that was how Ratchet had wanted it, until Ratchet had revealed he would've preferred to have Wheeljack all along – he'd just been hesitant to ask.

Wheeljack had been a poor friend in that respect, failing to recognize that Ratchet wanted – no, _needed_ him. Ratchet had always been there for him, guarding his back, offering his unwavering support, but when Ratchet had finally asked something of him in return, Wheeljack's circumstances had caused him to spurn his friend's request.

He regretted that ungrateful reaction, even though he knew he couldn't have given Ratchet what he really wanted. Starscream had made that impossible. But even so, there had to have been _other_ opportunities prior to that, long before the Seeker's shadow had fallen over him.

Opportunities Wheeljack had failed to recognize, let alone act upon.

He cycled a sigh. He should have broached the topic vorns ago, back when he'd first noticed his odd exclusion. There was no going back now; he couldn't change the past. But he still owed Ratchet something, some measure of recognition for all that Ratchet had done for him. It was only fair.

He'd taken Ratchet's friendship for granted for far too long.

The faint hiss of depressurizing hydraulics pulled him from his musings. Ratchet had come out of recharge. Wheeljack greeted him with his vocal indicators flashing brightly, "Hey, Ratch."

Ratchet's expression was pensive, reminding him unnervingly of Trailbreaker. "Morning, 'Jack," he replied, his tone subdued.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"I should have said no," Ratchet murmured, almost to himself. "Why didn't I say no?"

"Ratch?" he inquired uncertainly, disturbed by his tone.

Ratchet met his gaze with saddened optics, shaking his helm. "I'm sorry, 'Jack," he said softly. "I wanted to be there for you. I didn't have the spark to turn you down again. But last night…was a mistake."

He sat up abruptly. "_What?_"

"It was a mistake," Ratchet repeated quietly. "We shouldn't have done it. I should have said no."

_This wasn't happening._ "If that's a joke, Ratch, it isn't funny," he said reproachfully.

"It's no joke," Ratchet replied, his expression grave.

"I don't understand," he said, feeling hurt and bewildered. "I thought you – you said you _wanted_ this!"

"I did," Ratchet admitted ruefully. "Primus help me, I did. But not like this, 'Jack. It wasn't – it's not what I wanted. I thought it was…but it's not."

"Pit, Ratch," he said peevishly. "You say you want me, practically throw me onto your desk trying to _prove_ it, and then when I finally let you –!"

"That's what I mean," Ratchet interrupted. "You _let_ me, 'Jack. You let me because I'm your friend and you trust me. That's why you came to me in the first place. You wouldn't have, if you hadn't needed me. And I…cared too much about you to say no."

Wheeljack stared at him, his spark sinking, his processor reeling. Ratchet didn't want him either?

"Oh, don't you _dare_," Ratchet warned, a hint of his usual gruff demeanor returning. "Don't even go there, Wheeljack. I know what you're thinking, and you can forget it, because I'm only going to say this once: This is not about you, or about what Starscream did to you. It's about _me_."

Ratchet sat up and laid a hand on his arm, his expression softening, a small, sad smile curving his lip components. "I still want you, 'Jack," he said. "I probably always will," he admitted, a faint crackle of static creeping into his vocalizer. "But I can't be with you, not like this. It's not…you're not _there_, 'Jack. You're just not there. I…need you to be there."

"I'm here, Ratch," he protested weakly, feeling as if he'd failed him somehow. "I'm right here."

"No, you're not," Ratchet said sadly. "I know you would be if you could, 'Jack, but I'm not what you want. I wish I was, but I'm not. I know you love me, but you're not _in_ love with me. You never have been."

"Ratch…" he whispered, his spark clenching with remorse. He _had_ failed him.

"And I'm…I'm not in love with you either, Wheeljack," Ratchet said. "I thought I was, but…" He trailed off, shaking his helm. "I was just in love with the _idea_ of it. The idea of being in love with you. Of you being in love with me."

Wheeljack could only gaze at him in regret, his spark aching in sympathy for Ratchet's pain, a pain he'd somehow failed to see.

"I don't think we should do this again," Ratchet said quietly. "At least…not for a while. It hurts too much to be with you, 'Jack. I can't do it."

Wheeljack embraced him instinctively, seeking to comfort, and Ratchet curled gratefully into his arms, his hydraulics depressurizing as he rested his helm against Wheeljack's chestplate.

"I'm sorry, Ratch," he said helplessly. "I didn't know."

"It's okay," Ratchet whispered, stroking his backstrut comfortingly. "It's not your fault, 'Jack. If I'd spoken up sooner, maybe things would be different. But I didn't, and this is how they turned out."

"I never said anything either," he said, wanting to share at least some of the blame. "I _should've_ said something. I'd noticed you never – but I just assumed –"

"I know," Ratchet said quietly. "I'll be all right. I'm just…gonna need some time."

He nodded against Ratchet's shoulder-strut. "I understand," he said. "I'm – I'm here for you, Ratch. If you need me, I'll be there. I promise."

"You need time too, 'Jack," Ratchet pointed out, lifting his helm to meet his optics. "You still have a lot of things to sort out, and I can't help you like I should. I'm too close, and I shouldn't have tried. You should talk to Hoist; he's got some experience with this sort of thing. I can set something up with him if you'd like."

He drew back from their embrace abruptly, circuits heating in affront. "You want me to tell _Hoist_ now, too?" he demanded incredulously. "Frag, Ratch – that's your solution for everything! Tell Optimus, tell Trailbreaker, tell _Hoist_ – maybe I should just make a _Ark_-wide announcement!"

Ratchet smirked. "Well, the comm systems _are_ working again," he replied wryly.

Wheeljack kicked him off the berth.

x.x.x.x.x

"I have to go," Ratchet said from the floor, his expression sobering abruptly. "I'm due in repair bay."

Wheeljack eyed him reproachfully. After he'd booted him off the berth, Ratchet had collapsed into a fit of near-hysterical laughter, wheezing through his vents. Wheeljack had glared at him, but made no objection. He'd somehow sensed Ratchet _needed_ to laugh, and Ratchet _had_, so hard Wheeljack thought he might break something.

"You're off today, right?" Ratchet asked. "What are you gonna do? Got any plans?"

"I dunno," he said, shrugging. "I'm not sure yet."

"You can stay here if you want," Ratchet offered. "But I gotta roll; I'm gonna be late."

He got up, extending a hand to help Ratchet to his feet, pulling him upright when Ratchet accepted it. "I'll seal the door when I leave," he said. "Same code as last time?"

"Yeah," Ratchet said. "Have a good day, 'Jack. I'll see you later."

He sat back down on the berth after seeing Ratchet to the door, looking around at the familiar-yet-unfamiliar room. He didn't feel _uncomfortable_, exactly – Ratchet's quarters were reassuringly reminiscent of their owner, even in his absence – but in the wake of recent revelations, it felt a little strange being there.

He was still trying to absorb it all.

Finding out that Ratchet wanted him had been something of a shock, but only because Ratchet had gone to such lengths to conceal it. At the time Wheeljack had wondered why his friend had bothered. Ratchet was by no means shy about stating his desires openly. He never had been.

Now it all made sense. It wasn't the idea of asking Wheeljack to 'face him that had caused Ratchet to hesitate; it was about what lay behind that request, and what it might mean for them.

He glanced around the room again, trying to sort through the confusing tangle of his own emotions. His optics settled on an image capture displayed on Ratchet's workstation, and he got to his feet, moving across the room for a closer look.

His spark warmed as he recognized the image, memory files rushing into his cache at the sight. It had been taken by Sparkplug over a cycle ago, shortly after they'd created Snarl and Swoop. Sparkplug had wanted to commemorate the occasion, joking that they ought to have a "family portrait."

It had taken several tries to get it right. Wheeljack and Ratchet had posed obligingly in front of their creations, but the Dinobots, intractable as always, had had difficulty remaining in the positions Sparkplug wanted them in long enough for him to capture the image. In the end they'd managed it, and Sparkplug had gotten his "family portrait."

But the image Ratchet had on his workstation wasn't _that_ image – it was one of the earlier attempts. In it, Grimlock and Slag were arguing – a dispute that had nearly come to blows – and Ratchet, who by then had lost nearly all patience, was attempting to cow them with threats, his arms raised in protest. Wheeljack was beside him, doubled over in laughter, his vocal indicators caught in mid-flash, clinging to the arm of a bemused Swoop for support while Snarl and Sludge looked on in confusion.

His spark swelled in its chamber as he picked up the framed image, understanding immediately why Ratchet had chosen to display it over the stiff, formal one.

It had more _spark_.

He couldn't imagine life without Ratchet. Their brief estrangement had been agonizing, almost unbearable, like losing a vital piece of himself. Virtually every memory file he treasured had Ratchet in it somewhere.

Ratchet. His best friend.

He set the capture down again, and noticed a second, smaller one behind it. Unlike the glossy, human-made image Sparkplug had taken, this one was Cybertronian, captured just after the war began.

He and Ratchet, standing arm in arm, flaunting their freshly-applied Autobot insignias. Ratchet was beaming, looking happier than Wheeljack had seen in a long time, his optics lit with hope and pride.

But there were other things hidden within that cheerful image, things only someone who'd actually been there would know. Ratchet's grip on his shoulder-strut that day had been almost painfully tight, a testament to the anxiety that accompanied their commitment, the grim knowledge of the danger they'd agreed to face for the sake of the Autobot cause.

His mood sobered as he looked at it, studying Ratchet's frozen expression as if the image might somehow come to life and speak to him. Had Ratchet loved him even back then? Was that the reason he'd clung to Wheeljack so tightly? Because he feared he might lose him to the war before he found the courage to reveal his true feelings?

How long had Ratchet suffered, hiding the truth?

He _did_ love Ratchet; he always had. But he'd never wanted more, never longed for their friendship to become closer than it already was. He tried to picture it, to envision them together, imagining them interacting the way Grapple and Hoist or even Hound and Mirage did – inseparable, utterly focused on one another, wanting to spend every functioning moment in each other's company. Planning leisure activities together, trading endearments instead of insults –

He shook his helm regretfully. He just couldn't see it.

His spark contracted painfully. It _hurt_, to know Ratchet had suffered for so long, waiting for him, _hoping_ – but he couldn't make himself feel the way Ratchet felt, the way Ratchet wanted him to feel. He didn't really understand why, beyond the vague sense that a Ratchet he could love like that just…wouldn't be _Ratchet_.

The last thing he wanted was to make things worse. He'd given Ratchet what he could, but being so close and yet so far from what he truly desired had proven too painful for Ratchet to bear. Wheeljack would gladly have 'faced with his friend if that was what Ratchet wanted, but he couldn't do it knowing he was only hurting him more.

In that moment, Wheeljack knew he would never ask again.

Maybe someday, Ratchet would come to him. If he did, Wheeljack would welcome him. But it would have to be _Ratchet's_ decision, not his. That was the way it had to be.

He wouldn't treat Ratchet any differently otherwise. He wouldn't avoid him, or try to maintain an artificial distance between them. He needed Ratchet, and he knew Ratchet needed him. No one else understood Ratchet the way Wheeljack did, accepting him for who he really was. Pretending not to care as much as he did would be just as cruel as pretending to care _more_, and Ratchet would hate him for it.

He set the image capture down again, arranging it carefully alongside the first. Suddenly the room seemed too close, too confining; he craved space, freedom to _move_.

He left Ratchet's quarters, keying in the locking code, and transformed, departing the _Ark_.

x.x.x.x.x

He spent the next joor tearing across the open desert, pushing his engine to the limit, performing increasingly elaborate stunts for an unappreciative audience of rocks and brush. He did his best to focus solely on what he was doing, and tried not to think.

It worked for a while, even though he knew eventually he'd have to confront all the things he'd been avoiding. Sooner or later, something would have to give. He was running out of diversions.

Surprisingly, it was Mirage that ended up providing one. The spy commed an open distress call from a region not far way, near where Omega Supreme was stationed, requesting reinforcements.

Wheeljack hastened to his position.

He arrived before Mirage himself did, finding Bluestreak, Sunstreaker, Brawn, Hound, and Beachcomber already at the scene. They quickly apprised each other of the situation while they awaited Mirage's return. Bluestreak and Sunstreaker had been on patrol together when they got the comm. Hound had come to the aid of his lover, and Brawn, bored and eager for a fight, had tagged along. Beachcomber had been with Perceptor and Seaspray on a research outing to the shore, accompanied by Powerglide and Warpath. The scientists had been attacked by the Coneheads and Blitzwing, and in the course of the battle Perceptor and Seaspray had been captured. The remaining 'Bots had regrouped and gone to rescue them, aided by Smokescreen and Mirage. Beachcomber, the only remaining scientist, had stayed behind.

When Mirage arrived, they learned the rest of the story. The 'Cons had attacked the group of rescuers, and had proved strangely difficult to defeat. Powerglide had been shot down, Warpath disabled. Mirage had gone back for help while Smokescreen created a diversion to cover his retreat. What had happened to him after that, Mirage didn't know.

The thought of facing the Decepticons in battle sent a shiver of apprehension up Wheeljack's backstrut, but he couldn't refuse to help, not with so many mechs damaged and in need of repair. He reminded himself that only yesterday he'd been convinced Optimus Prime had been wrong to restrict him from combat, and squared his shoulder-struts in determination.

He could _do_ this.

They transformed and rolled out, returning to the battlefield. They soon discovered Mirage had been right; their weapons had little effect on the 'Cons. Wheeljack stood and returned fire along with the rest, holding his ground in spite of the terror pulsing in his spark. His aim was poor due to the renewed tremors in his hands, but it hardly mattered; the Decepticons seemed impervious to their attacks.

Panic welled up within him, his systems threatening to lock up entirely, but then Mirage, who'd been standing beside him, went down, struck by a direct hit from Megatron's fusion cannon. Wheeljack didn't think; he simply _reacted_, seizing the injured spy and dragging him to cover behind a cluster of rocks. Once there, he immediately began performing field repairs on the damaged mech, oblivious to the battle raging around them.

It wasn't until Mirage was no longer at risk of imminent deactivation that Wheeljack looked up and realized the Decepticons were gone. The battle was over, and he had no idea which side had won.

He suspected it hadn't been them.

"Mirage!"

Wheeljack turned toward the cry, and saw Hound running toward them, his own plating scorched and dented, trailing wisps of smoke. Hound dropped to his knees as he reached them, grabbing one of Mirage's hands in both of his own.

"He's gonna be all right," he assured him. "I was able to stabilize his spark."

Hound glanced at him, his expression oddly conflicted. It seemed like he was about to say something, but then Mirage onlined, whispering his lover's name, and relief swept in to take its place.

Wheeljack got to his feet, politely tuning out the two lovers as they reassured one another in quiet whispers. The remaining Autobots were regrouping, gathering around them. Most were damaged, but a quick scan of their injuries revealed none as severe as Mirage's.

"Everyone functional?" he asked. A chorus of affirmations returned from all sides.

He was the ranking officer here, so he took command, comming Optimus Prime to inform him of the situation. Prime ordered them to send Omega Supreme to deal with the Decepticons while Teletraan-1 worked on determining the source of their apparent invulnerability. Smokescreen agreed to go and fetch Omega, and the rest of the 'Bots returned to the _Ark_.

The drive back with Hound and Mirage was fraught with tension. Apart from a quiet thank you from Mirage, none of them spoke. Wheeljack could sense the comm signals passing back and forth between the two lovers, but was loath to intrude on their conversation, and opted to remain silent.

It _had_ been a close call.

Wheeljack mused on that as he drove. He'd had some difficulty facing the 'Cons in battle; that much he could admit. He'd come perilously close to freezing up again, just as Ratchet had predicted he would. Ratchet had probably warned Prime about that, which had in turn spurred Optimus to exclude Wheeljack from combat.

But when Mirage had been hit, his paralysis had vanished. Repairing Mirage and getting him to safety had become Wheeljack's primary goal, to the exclusion of all others. There'd been no room for doubt or fear.

Had he stayed behind, or not answered Mirage's distress comm, there would have been no one on hand to intervene, no one present to ensure that the soft-spoken noblemech wasn't damaged further – or worse, deactivated. If Optimus and Ratchet had had their way, things might have turned out far worse for Mirage.

That was an important distinction, one worthy of consideration. Which posed the greater threat to his comrades – an ally who was less effective in battle, or one that wasn't there at all?

More than one Autobot preferred to avoid conflict when possible, only fighting out of necessity – Skyfire, Beachcomber, and Mirage himself among them – but when the need arose, they fought, and Optimus Prime allowed it.

Why should _he_ be any different from _them?_

The answer, of course, was that he shouldn't. It was patently unfair, to ask more of the mechs serving under him than Wheeljack was required to give. He resolved to request a meeting with Optimus immediately upon their return.

It was time for him to speak up.

x.x.x.x.x

"What was it you wanted to talk about?" Optimus asked. "Did you have an idea for an invention you think might work on the Decepticons?"

After Mirage and the others had been safely ensconced in repair bay under the care of Ratchet and Hoist, Wheeljack had commed Optimus Prime, asking to speak with him. Prime had agreed to meet him in his office, but now that they were here, Wheeljack suddenly found himself at a loss for words.

"Uh…no," he replied, cursing inwardly. Why hadn't he planned this better, worked out what he wanted to say beforehand? Stupid –

"You weren't going to suggest I send the Dinobots, were you?" Prime asked. "As powerful as they are, I think Omega Supreme is the better choice. Enough damage has been incurred already."

"No," he agreed. "You're right; Omega's definitely the way to go. He'll handle it."

Optimus nodded, regarding him expectantly. Wheeljack fidgeted under that steady gaze, unable to meet Prime's optics for more than a handful of astroseconds at a time.

"I, uh, didn't ask to meet with you to talk about the Decepticons," he said finally.

"Oh?" Optimus asked.

"No – well, not really. Not about _this_ fight," he clarified. "Not specifically."

"I see," Optimus said.

"It's just, um…I'd noticed you – that is, it seems like I've been assigned a lot of…monitor duty lately..?" he ventured haltingly.

Optimus cocked his helm slightly. "Is that a problem?" he asked.

"Well, no," he admitted. "I don't mind that, it's just, I usually get more...active duty..?"

Optimus nodded, "And?"

Prime's polite confusion only made it more difficult to vocalize his request, to level what amounted to an accusation against his commander. Wheeljack already regretted requesting this meeting, but he knew he couldn't back down. Optimus had agreed to meet with him, granting Wheeljack his valuable time in spite of everything that was going on. He couldn't very well leave without saying what was on his processor.

"A-and I was wondering if you were, um, you know – doing it on purpose?" he asked hesitantly.

"Yes," Optimus replied.

Wheeljack stared at him, startled by his unapologetic affirmation. "You've been keeping me out of combat deliberately?" he repeated, wondering if Optimus had misunderstood the question.

"I have," Optimus confirmed.

For a moment he was too stunned to respond. He'd suspected as much, but it was a shock to hear Optimus admit it so openly.

"Did…did Ratchet tell you to do that?" he asked.

"No," Optimus said with a shake of his helm. "But I'm confident he would support my decision."

"Then…why?" he asked.

Now it was Optimus Prime's turn to look surprised – an expression that quickly shifted to one of concern.

"Wheeljack," Prime said, his tone frank but gentle, "You were _assaulted_."

He stiffened, his servos tensing, his hydraulics pressurizing abruptly.

"Starscream forced an uplink on you," Optimus persisted, "and made you overload against your will."

A sensation of icy cold swept through his circuitry, chilling his spark, freezing him in place. Not even Ratchet had spoken so matter-of-factly about what Starscream had done, or stated it so…unflinchingly. "Yes, but –" he began, but got no further.

"That is an extremely personal attack," Optimus said.

"I know that!" he blurted out, not wanting him to say any more. "But he didn't – I'm not _damaged_," he insisted. "Ratchet scanned me, and I'm – I'm fine now."

"Physical injuries are quickly put behind us," Optimus agreed. "But injuries of this nature have far more lasting effects."

A hot flash of anger heated his frozen circuits. "What are you saying?" he demanded. "That I'm _useless_ now?"

Optimus stepped closer, laying a reassuring hand on his shoulder-strut. Wheeljack flinched at the touch and instantly hated himself for it.

"I'm saying you need time to recover," Optimus said gently. "There's no shame in that, Wheeljack. I would no more expect you to go into battle than I would a mech who'd been severely damaged in any other manner. In combat, physical capability is only half of the equation."

"We don't _have_ time!" he argued. "Today Mirage nearly – if I hadn't been there – you _need_ me!"

Optimus' hand on his shoulder-strut gave a gentle squeeze. "I do," he agreed. "And that is precisely why I can't risk sending you into battle before you're ready."

"So who decides when I'm ready?" he asked resentfully.

"I have the final say in all duty assignments," Optimus replied. "But ultimately…you do."

"Well, then…I am," he said.

Optimus said nothing, merely regarding him with concerned optics.

"What?" he asked defensively. "You just said I get to decide, now you're gonna try and talk me out of it?"

"I'm not trying to convince you of anything, Wheeljack," Optimus replied.

"No, you just don't _believe_ me," he retorted angrily.

"Such a rapid recovery does seem improbable," Optimus said. "And while you may _say_ you're ready, I can't help but notice you appear to be communicating otherwise."

"What's that supposed to mean?" he demanded.

"You're shaking," Optimus pointed out quietly.

Wheeljack shrugged off his hand with a sharp jerk of his shoulder-strut, clenching his traitorously trembling hands into fists. "I'm fine," he said tightly.

"You also seem very angry," Optimus observed. "That kind of anger has no place on the battlefield."

"You're not going to put me back on active duty," he concluded sullenly.

"I think it would be unwise," Optimus agreed.

He felt cheated, outmaneuvered. Optimus had said it was his decision, but he was using Wheeljack's own reactions against him. He couldn't get angry, couldn't argue that Prime's treatment was unfair – Optimus would interpret anything he said or did as proof that his decision was justified.

"I'm not defective," he muttered resentfully. "There's nothing wrong with me."

"I know that," Optimus replied gently. "But do _you?_"

He looked up at him sharply. "Of course I know that!" he snapped. "I told you I was fine! You're the one who thinks I'm not!"

"Wheeljack –" Optimus began, shaking his helm.

"Let me prove it to you," he said, interrupting him. "Send me into battle, and I'll show you. Put me back on active duty. I'll be fine, you'll see that I'm fine."

"What if you're wrong?" Optimus asked.

"If I'm not, then take me off again," he said. "If I can't handle it, I'll stay behind, I won't complain. But at least let me _try_."

Optimus considered his request, studying him thoughtfully. Wheeljack drew himself up to his full height, meeting his leader's gaze with defiant optics.

"Very well," Optimus relented. "I will allow it."

Wheeljack activated his vocalizer to thank him, but before he could speak, Prime added, "But it goes against my better judgment."

His spark sank. He lowered his gaze, unable to savor his victory in the face of those worried optics.

"I want you to promise you will tell me immediately if you change your mind," Optimus said. "Please understand, Wheeljack, I hold you in the highest esteem. That will not change, no matter what you decide. But if I see you having difficulty, I will not hesitate to remove you from active duty again."

Wheeljack winced, stung by his reproving tone. "So if I screw up, you'll just haul me off the battlefield in front of everyone, is that it?"

"This is not a punishment, Wheeljack," Optimus said chidingly.

"It _feels_ like one," he replied bitterly.

Prime laid a hand on his shoulder-strut again. This time Wheeljack didn't flinch. He raised his helm, meeting his commander's troubled gaze.

Optimus seemed about to speak, but then tensed abruptly. "I'm needed in Command," he said.

Wheeljack nodded. "I'll tell you," he agreed reluctantly. "You have my word."

Optimus gave his shoulder-strut another squeeze, and turned toward the door.

Wheeljack followed him out in silence.

x.x.x.x.x

"I guess…we won," Beachcomber commented, sounding less than enthused.

"Yeah," Wheeljack replied, his tone similarly subdued.

A little over a joor ago, he'd returned to Command with Optimus and learned the troubling news of Omega Supreme's defeat at the hands of the Decepticons. Shortly after that, Teletraan-1 had determined the source of their foes' newfound invulnerability: electrum. Optimus had immediately sent out survey teams to discover the source, but it was Powerglide, returning to the _Ark_, who had spotted the 'Cons and ended up following them to it.

They'd hastened to Powerglide's location, pausing only long enough to set up decoys to delay the Decepticons and ensure the Autobots reached the electrum first. True to his word, Optimus Prime allowed Wheeljack to accompany them, even though he wasn't assigned to duty that day.

Upon their arrival at the hidden glade, not far from the location of the first attack, they encountered Perceptor, Seaspray and Beachcomber, recently escaped from the Decepticon brig. Beachcomber had been the first to try the electrum, but the other Autobots were quick to join him, eager to level the playing field against the 'Cons.

Wheeljack had dived in along with them, relieved at the prospect of gaining the same invulnerability to attack that their enemies currently enjoyed. For the first time in cycles, he actually looked forward to facing the 'Cons, secure in the knowledge that nothing could harm him.

The battle that followed was fierce and brutal, but ultimately one-sided – the effects of the electrum wore off the Decepticons first, ensuring their defeat. His advantage lost, Megatron had destroyed the electrum lagoon and retreated, leaving the Autobots to claim victory.

It wasn't until they'd transformed to return to the _Ark_ that Wheeljack realized his mistake. Today's battle had been his test, his chance to prove to Optimus Prime that he could function in combat without faltering – and he'd _cheated_.

"Where will the poor animals live now?" Beachcomber wondered morosely. "We destroyed their homes."

Wheeljack scanned him in surprise, noting that like him, the geologist had fallen behind the others, driving with his chassis sunk low on his tires.

He hadn't even considered the damage they'd caused to the glade in the course of their battle. It seemed a trivial concern, compared to his own difficulties.

_Hound would care,_ he sneered inwardly, recalling how distressed the scout had become when he'd learned the fate of the salmon. Hound would probably consider the destruction of the glade equally tragic. _Stupid thing to get upset over,_ he thought uncharitably. _So we burned up a few trees, so what? There are billions of them!_

But thinking about Hound reminded him of Trailbreaker, and that sobered his mood considerably. When the Autobots left the _Ark_ to fight the 'Cons, Trailbreaker hadn't been among them. Wheeljack supposed he'd opted to stay behind with Hound, who was no doubt still hovering over Mirage in repair bay, waiting for the spy to recover from his injuries.

Which meant Trailbreaker was effectively _alone_.

Wheeljack's spark twisted in its chamber at the thought. Trailbreaker would have been as distressed to witness the destruction of the glade as Beachcomber was, perhaps even more so, given the abundance of Earth plant life in his quarters – but Wheeljack knew he'd hate being overlooked and forgotten by his best friend even more.

_Maybe I should try to talk to him_, he thought. Even if Trailbreaker didn't want him anymore, he might still prefer Wheeljack's company over being ignored entirely.

The thought sent an odd surge of hope through his spark. Trailbreaker had helped to lift his spirits on more than one occasion. It seemed only right that he return the favor.

He owed him that much.

But in spite of his decision to seek out Trailbreaker, by the time they'd arrived back at the _Ark_, his confidence had begun to waver. Wanting to do it was one thing; actually _doing_ it was another.

For one thing, he didn't know where Trailbreaker was. Neither he nor Hound were in repair bay. That had been the first place he'd checked. Hound _had_ been there, but Hoist informed him that he'd completed Mirage's repairs while they were out fighting the 'Cons, and the two lovers had left together when Mirage was released. Hoist didn't mention whether Trailbreaker had been with them or not, and Wheeljack hadn't asked.

He didn't want to place another inquiry with Teletraan. Comming Trailbreaker to ask where he was seemed like an equally bad idea. If Trailbreaker was angry with him, he might refuse to answer his hails.

Wheeljack wasn't sure what he'd say to him, anyway. Apologize, maybe? Offer to talk more? Say he still wanted to be friends? All of those options sounded lame and pathetic. Trailbreaker would probably laugh right in his faceplate.

He shook his helm in resignation, deciding to go and refuel instead.

Maybe the answer would come to him.

x.x.x.x.x

The common room was packed, crammed nearly wall-to-wall with the usual post-battle mob. The air was thick with comm signals and chatter, none of which the weary inventor felt inclined to participate in. He wasn't in the mood for gossip.

It took nearly a breem to reach the energon dispenser and dispense his ration. Cube in hand, Wheeljack turned and began weaving through the crowd, intent on finding an unclaimed table.

He was about to give it up as a loss and simply return to his quarters when he saw him.

Trailbreaker was sitting alone, hunched over in his chair, his shoulder-struts slumped, staring down at his empty hands with a defeated expression. For such a large mech, he looked small and crumpled, as if crushed by the weight of his own despair.

Wheeljack's spark twisted in its chamber at the sight, at the dejected look on Trailbreaker's faceplate. He was halfway to his table before he realized his feet were moving, the energon cube in his hand forgotten.

He drew up short when Hound stepped into his path, his brisk stride faltering with the effort to avoid a collision. His gyrostabilizers spun rapidly at the sudden halt in his forward momentum, striving to restore his equilibrium.

"Hey, Wheeljack," Hound greeted him cheerfully. "How's it going?"

"Fine," he replied distractedly. He didn't have time to chat; Trailbreaker had evidently finished refueling, which meant he was probably about to leave. If Wheeljack wasn't quick enough, he'd –

"Heard you guys won the battle," Hound said conversationally. "Congratulations."

"Yeah," he said, trying to peer past him to see if Trailbreaker was still seated. "We did okay."

"Wanted to thank you for what you did for Mirage," Hound continued. "Hoist said it was a good thing you were there – it was a bad hit."

"No problem," he said. "I'm glad he's okay."

He sensed the brief flicker of a comm signal from the scout as Hound nodded, smiling amiably.

_Probably telling Mirage what I said_, he thought, but then his audials picked up the scrape of a chair sliding across the deckplating, the subtle sound of shifting metal, and he caught a glimpse of Trailbreaker rising to his feet over Hound's shoulder-strut.

Trailbreaker was _leaving_. "I gotta go," he said to Hound, turning to follow. "I'll talk to you later."

Hound stepped in front of him again, once more blocking his path.

Wheeljack met his optics in surprise.

Hound was no longer smiling. "Leave him alone," he said coldly.

That was when he noticed Hound was holding _two_ energon cubes.

"I just wanna talk to him," he said, cowed by the scout's forbidding glare.

"That's not a good idea," Hound replied stonily, anger flashing in his optics. "Leave him alone; you've hurt him enough."

His own temper flared in response. Who was _Hound_, to accuse him of hurting Trailbreaker? Hound was the one who'd been ignoring him, casting him aside in favor of –

"I'm surprised to see you here, Hound," he said, his vocal indicators flashing tersely. "Is Mirage back on duty already?"

Hound stiffened, clearly stung by his words. Behind him, Wheeljack saw Trailbreaker slip between Smokescreen and Tracks, his dark form swiftly swallowed up by the crowd. He could just make out Trailbreaker's communications array over the helms of the gathered mechs, marking his progress as he made his way towards the exit.

Trailbreaker was gone. Hound's interference had cost Wheeljack his chance.

Optics narrowing, he twisted the knife. "Oh, that's right," he said venomously, "I forgot – Mirage just got out of repair bay. He probably wanted to go back to his quarters to recharge. _Alone_."

Hound's lip components compressed into a thin line, a look of hurt and guilt flashing across his faceplate. If not for his mask, Wheeljack would have smirked at his expression.

"Frag you," Hound retorted bluntly. "How could you do that to him?" he demanded. "What did he ever do to you?"

Wheeljack's vocal indicators flickered in surprise. What had _he_ done? _Trailbreaker_ had been the one who wanted to end it –!

"I thought you were a decent mech," Hound said bitterly, shaking his helm in disgust. "When you let yourself get captured that day so that we could escape, I actually thought you were a lot like Optimus Prime! But you're not – you're just another selfish slagger. I wish I'd never told him to go after you."

Hound's words jolted him to the core, freezing him in place. Before he could react, Hound shouldered past him roughly, sloshing the energon in his cubes. Wheeljack's optics tracked him numbly as the scout made his way to the door and departed – no doubt to find his friend.

He was dimly aware that their altercation had been noted by the crowd; the steady buzz of conversation dropped off as Hound stormed out, and then promptly picked back up again. Every mech in the common room was looking at him, but Wheeljack couldn't move – Hound's statement was still echoing in his CPU.

– _when you let yourself get captured that day – _

He glanced down at himself, at the energon cube he was still holding. The shimmering liquid within rippled, echoing the tremors besieging his hands. He felt horribly exposed, as if all of his armor had been stripped away, his spark chamber laid bare. Everyone was _staring_ –

He shuddered, abruptly regaining control of his servos.

He immediately put them to good use, and fled the room in shame.

x.x.x.x.x

He wasn't sure how he'd ended up in the washracks.

He had the vague recollection of moving blindly through corridors, making turns at random, but nothing resembling a conscious decision toward a destination. His only thought had been to get away, to try and escape the unwelcome spotlight he'd been unwillingly thrust into.

The 'racks were empty, at least. The few 'Bots that hadn't been in the common room were most likely on duty or had already retired for the night. As for those who had –

They'd probably be there a good while longer. He'd given them lots to talk about. Pit, they were probably _still_ talking about him – his hasty departure would have only made the topic all the more intriguing, providing the _Ark's_ gossips with enough fodder to occupy them for _days_.

Venting a sigh of resignation, he made his way across the room to the far wall and switched on the sprayer. A good cleansing would be ideal, just the thing to help him relax. The solvent would feel warm and soothing, even if he didn't actually need –

He stared down at himself in surprise. He _did_ need it. _Badly_.

He was _filthy_, his plating scorched by the handful of glancing hits he'd taken in the day's battle, his white paint dulled by a heavy layer of dust and grime gained during his impromptu tour of the desert. The dip in the electrum lagoon hadn't helped matters; lingering traces of it glinted gaudily from the seams in his plating, serving only to highlight the poor state of his neglected condition.

He grabbed a brush from the rack and started scrubbing, his circuits burning with humiliation.

They'd all been looking at him, and he'd looked like _this._ It was like a bad joke – he'd made an utter fool of himself in front of practically every 'Bot on the _Ark._

Worse, _Trailbreaker_ had seen him like this. Wheeljack had been about to approach him, to try and persuade Trailbreaker to talk to him, looking as scruffy and unkempt as an overworked mining drone.

It was no wonder Trailbreaker had left just to avoid him.

And right now Trailbreaker was probably with Hound, getting an audial-full of all the nasty things Wheeljack had said. What had he been _thinking?_ Hound was Trailbreaker's best friend, and he'd lashed out at him ruthlessly, leveling the cruelest and most hurtful accusations he could think of out of sheer spite.

If he'd ever had any hope of mollifying Trailbreaker, it was well and truly gone now, blown up in his faceplate like some ill-conceived invention.

He scrubbed harder, scouring his plating with fierce, angry strokes. He'd been so _stupid_ –

He wasn't vain, but he had his pride. He'd fought hard to earn the respect of his peers, the esteem of his commander. Some mechs thought he was crazy, but even _that_ had ultimately worked in his favor, causing them to view him with a kind of awe. Even the Decepticons feared the weapons he engineered.

Now all that was gone, washed down the drain like the dirt he'd scrubbed off his plating.

Optimus Prime would never publicly humiliate himself like that, lobbing crude insults like a petulant sparkling when he didn't get his way. None of the other officers allowed their emotions to run away with them so completely, the way Wheeljack just had. He'd never seen Prowl or Jazz lose control, and Ratchet – Ratchet might make a _show_ of getting angry, but everyone knew it was just bluster, a way for the CMO to vent the unrelieved tension that came with the heavy burden of being responsible for the lives of so many mechs.

Ratchet was a healer, first and foremost. Even at his worst, he never flung his barbs with the intent to wound. Unlike Wheeljack, Ratchet had never insulted Hound – a mech universally regarded as one of the nicest in the Autobot ranks – or threatened Bumblebee, a 'Bot so innocuous he even put the humans at ease. Ratchet had never mouthed off to Optimus Prime, questioning his leader's command decisions –

But Wheeljack had done all those things. And for what? To hide the truth. To keep everyone from finding out just how contemptible he really was.

He slumped against the wall, the brush slipping from his hand and skittering across the floor. He felt drained, exhausted, overcome by a core-deep weariness that left his limbs weak and trembling.

He was just so _tired_. Tired of the lies, tired of fighting to hold himself together when all he felt like doing was falling apart. He didn't have the strength to feel angry or embarrassed anymore. It was just too _hard,_ being angry all the time.

Especially when he knew, deep down, he had no _right_ to be. The truth was he deserved it all. He deserved to be humiliated, to be hated and reviled by everyone who knew him. Their disdain was well earned.

– _when you_ _let_ _yourself be captured – _

A wave of disgust and self-loathing swept over him, so towering and intense it felt liable to crush him to atoms. Optimus didn't think he could handle himself in battle. Trailbreaker didn't want him. Hound probably hated him. Even Ratchet, his best friend, couldn't bear to be around him.

_It's what you deserve._

He wrapped his arms around himself, hugging his chassis in an effort to ward off the cold, gnawing ache in his spark. He felt desolate, hollowed out, an empty shell filled with a black, echoing void.

Trailbreaker had filled that void. He'd lightened his spark, given him hope. He'd helped him to regain his lost courage, made him feel safe and wanted. The last time they'd been here, Trailbreaker had held him close, pressed tight against his chestplate, his strong arms supporting him, his presence warm and reassuring.

He wanted Trailbreaker to hold him like that again.

_I want him back_, he thought wretchedly. _I need_ _him._

But the pain in his spark only intensified. Trailbreaker didn't want him. The void inside him would never go away. The thought made him hug himself tighter, huddling against the wall, heedless of the solvent dripping steadily off his plating. He choked back a low, disconsolate keen of despair.

"Wheeljack?"

He straightened hastily, resetting his vocalizer. For a moment he'd forgotten just how _public_ the 'racks really were. He switched off the sprayer to buy a few precious astroseconds to collect himself, and turned to face the mech that had spoken.

Mirage was standing in the doorway, regarding him with a faintly troubled expression.

"Hey, Mirage," he greeted him. To his relief, he sounded almost normal.

"Is everything all right?" Mirage asked, stepping further into the room.

"Fine," he said, shrugging dismissively. "Everything's fine."

Mirage frowned faintly, a look of concern flickering across his finely-tooled features.

"I was just leaving," he said before Mirage decided to question him further, putting words to action and making his way towards the door.

As he passed him, Mirage said tentatively, "Wheeljack…"

Wheeljack paused, but didn't turn, his spark clenching in apprehension. "Yeah?" he replied warily.

He heard Mirage turn to face him, but the spy didn't speak immediately. He waited, fighting to contain his rising anxiety.

After a brief pause, Mirage said, "…thank you for helping me today."

His shoulder-struts sagged with relief. "No problem," he replied, "Anytime."

"Also, I…" Mirage began hesitantly, "I wanted to tell you…I consider you a friend."

Now Wheeljack _did_ turn around, to stare at him in surprise. Mirage's quiet admission was the last thing he'd expected to hear. Questions, yes, inquiries about his condition or the state Mirage had found him in – but not _that_.

Mirage looked abashed. "I…don't have many," he confessed, a rueful smile curving his lip components. "But I enjoyed talking with you the other day. If you're willing…I'd like to do it again sometime."

His vocal indicators flickered wordlessly as he recalled his thoughts from the previous day, his desire to talk to Mirage about the Towers engineers and their inventions. "Sure," he said. "Yeah, okay."

Mirage smiled shyly. "Thank you."

"See you around," he said. Mirage nodded.

He left the washracks feeling bemused.

Maybe there was still _one_ mech left on the _Ark_ who didn't hate him.

x.x.x.x.x

He was annoyed to discover that his quarters still felt…wrong.

He sat down on the berth with a huff, flexing his shoulder-struts restlessly. He glanced around the room, searching for a distraction, but that only served to remind him that he was alone.

_Get used to it, Wheeljack_, he thought gloomily. _This is how it's gonna be._

Shaking his helm, he lay back on the berth, but half a klik later he was on his feet again, pacing. He was tired, but too keyed-up to recharge.

He paced the length of the room, fidgeting uneasily, picking up random objects and putting them down again, feeling unsettled. His thoughts were distracted, refusing to focus.

Something nagged at the back of his processor. He'd felt like this before, restless and out of sorts, unable to concentrate. Lately he'd been feeling that way a lot, but the feeling itself wasn't new.

He sat back down on the berth again, sifting through his memory files, searching for the solution. What was it? How had he dealt with it before?

He compiled all the data, matching up the circumstances with his recollections of how he'd felt and what he'd done about it. Slowly a pattern began to emerge.

_No,_ he thought in dismay. _It can't be_ that.

He ran an internal diagnostic of his systems, just to be sure. The results were conclusive.

In hindsight, it wasn't all that surprising. He really should have noticed it sooner; the charge had been building in his circuits all day.

Building in anticipation of the overload they'd come to expect.

Tension gripped his servos, his spark thrumming with anxiety. Panic welled up in him, but he forced it back down, willing himself to stay calm. _What's the big deal?_ he thought dismissively. _Just take care of it._

It had never bothered him before. It was perfectly normal, nothing to get wound up over. _A little self-service never hurt anyone,_ he thought.

But that didn't stop his fuel tank from giving an uncomfortable lurch as he lay back down on the berth.

He cycled air through his intakes, trying to relax. _Just get it over with,_ he told himself. _Do it and get it done; then you can recharge._

He offlined his optics and reached up, tentatively tracing the edge of his windshield. His intakes hitched as the sensor nodes registered the gentle stimulation, the touch triggering a brief flash of pleasure accompanied by a conflicting undercurrent of revulsion.

He cycled air and tried again, pressing more firmly.

The results were the same.

He huffed in frustration. Why was this so hard? _Quit messing around, Wheeljack,_ he thought impatiently. _You know what you have to do; just _do_ it!_

He grumbled irritably, shifting on the berth, bending his knees and drawing his feet up. Sometimes his inner voice sounded suspiciously like Ratchet.

The thought of his friend made him wonder where Ratchet was right now. Maybe he could – no. He'd sworn to himself he wouldn't ask Ratchet again. He couldn't do that to his best friend.

_Stop being_ _an idiot,_ he chided himself. _You don't need Ratchet. You can handle this all by yourself._

Steeling himself, he reached for the gaps at his hips that his newly-adjusted position afforded him, dipping his fingers in to stroke the sensitive wires and cables. The resulting burst of pleasure made him gasp through his intakes, a rush of warmth suffusing his circuitry. Close on its heels came a surge of self-loathing and disgust, making him feel sick and weak.

_I don't want this,_ he told himself firmly. _I just need it, that's all_. _It's_ _nothing_.

He stubbornly persisted, rubbing harder, rolling the cables between his fingertips and tugging gently. A low groan escaped his vocalizer as pleasure shot through his systems, making his core temperature spike. His cooling fans kicked on, humming gently. _There,_ he thought with satisfaction. _I can do this. Just a little more – _

_That's it,_ the echo of Starscream hissed malevolently. _Just a little more…_

He jerked his hand back sharply, onlining his optics with a jolt at the memory file that had risen up unbidden into his cache. He sat up, venting hard, fighting the urge to eject the meager contents of his churning fuel tank.

After a klik or two the worst of it passed, and he flopped back on the berth with a _clank_. Now he felt _really_ unsettled, his core temperature uncomfortably high, his fans cycling away, his circuits tingling with a heavy charge.

He felt utterly pathetic.

He couldn't fight, couldn't invent, couldn't keep his temper – he couldn't even _overload_ himself, for Primus' sake. Most mechs did it without thinking, and why should they? It was _easy_. It was convenient, even for those who had a lover if that lover happened to be unavailable. Trailbreaker had mentioned doing it offhandedly, casually, because it was _no big deal._

The thought of Trailbreaker self-servicing made his overheated systems hum in approval. The mental image of Trailbreaker touching himself caused the charge flooding his circuits to spark in anticipation.

He offlined his optics in resignation, his hand drifting down to his hip plate again. His fingers slipped into the seam, teasing the wires within. He imagined Trailbreaker's hands moving over him, eagerly stroking his plating, and shuddered as his fans cycled up another notch.

Pressing his other hand flat against his chestplate, he revved his engine, and cried out softly as the vibrations triggered the sensitive nodes lining his palm, lighting up his sensor grid with pleasure. He writhed on the berth, memory files flickering through his processor, recalling the sound of Trailbreaker's deep voice groaning, whispering his name, his hands clenching as he inched steadily closer to the brink.

It felt good, but not perfect. Something was missing. He craved the sensation of Trailbreaker's weight above him, the ardent pulse and throb of his energy field, the radiating heat of his systems. His own energy field extended outward instinctively as the building charge neared its peak, reaching out, longing, _seeking –_

Nothing greeted it but cold, empty air.

His cry of release as he tipped over the edge swiftly turned into raw, keening bursts of static and shrill, crackling whines of feedback, wrenching sobs shaking his frame even as the fading echoes of stolen pleasure shivered through his circuitry. The black void in his spark yawned wide, threatening to engulf him in despair.

He curled in on himself, whimpering in grief. He felt defective, broken and defeated. What little remained of his pride lay in ruins, crushed to powder by the touch of his own hands. He'd been too weak to resist the siren call of his desire, and had paid the ultimate price. He'd sacrificed his own self-worth in exchange for a single brief moment of pleasure.

…just like he had that day.

– _when you_ let _yourself be captured –_

Hound had reminded him. Hound had known it was his fault, sensed the truth of just how weak Wheeljack really was. Somehow Starscream had known too, seizing upon that weakness and exploiting it, as Decepticons were wont to do.

He'd managed to fool Trailbreaker for a while, tricking him into thinking Wheeljack was actually worth something, but in the end Trailbreaker had discovered the truth, or at least detected the _presence_ of the lie.

The only one who'd been truly deluded was himself. He'd fallen into his own trap, seduced by the illusions he'd fabricated. Unlike Trailbreaker, Wheeljack had embraced the lie, had sincerely begun to believe he was what he'd pretended to be.

Because he was weak.

Now he was alone, with nothing left to console him but the tattered remains of the lies he'd woven.

Alone. Forever.


	30. Announcement

**Title: **After Atlantis  
**Obligatory Disclaimer:** I don't own Transformers.  
**Warnings: **PTSD angst, references to rape, references to sex.  
**Author's Note: **No cartoon episode references in this chapter, or in the next one for that matter. At this point in Season 2, Wheeljack becomes inexplicably camera-shy, limiting his onscreen appearances over the next dozen episodes to a few brief cameos. His curious lack of involvement will be explained as a part of the conclusion to this fic, but in order to wrap things up I had to diverge from canon slightly. I hope no one minds – there just wasn't a suitable canon scene available.

**Chapter 30: Announcement**

Wheeljack onlined his optics at the termination of his recharge cycle, but made no effort to rise.

It wasn't that his cycle had been interrupted – once he'd finally fallen into it – or that he hadn't refueled; he'd downed the cube he acquired last night after his sobs had devolved into dispirited whimpers, scarcely pausing to analyze the energon's chemical composition as he poured it down his intake.

No, his energy levels were fine. It was the _rest_ of him that was the problem.

He felt…_numb_, as if he'd burned out his own emotion chip. The despair he'd felt over the sheer hopelessness of his situation had been too much to endure, too great to contain. The overriding feelings of shame and disgust and self-loathing had completely overwhelmed him, spilling out in a raging torrent and leaving nothing behind but a barren, empty shell.

Yet somehow he was still functioning, even though he'd slipped into recharge half-hoping he wouldn't online again in the morning.

He wasn't sure how long he lay there, motionless, staring listlessly up at the ceiling, but after a while an internal reminder pinged, alerting him to the fact that he was supposed to report for duty in the repair bay in less than a quarter of a joor.

Normally the sound of that reminder would've had him scrambling to his feet and dashing out the door, bolting down the corridors of the _Ark_ in a frenzied rush to beat the morning crowd to the common room so that he could grab a cube and still make it to repair bay on time for his shift, but on this particular morning, he heaved himself off the berth as if his chassis were made of lead, his movements slow and ponderous.

If not for the knowledge that failing to report in would earn him a stern reprimand from Prowl, most likely accompanied by some processor-numbingly tedious duty assignment as a punishment, not to mention a blistering diatribe from Ratchet for leaving him in the lurch, he wouldn't have bothered.

As it was, by the time he made it to the common room the morning rush was already well underway. The flurry of excited whispers and comm signals that arose in response to his arrival scarcely penetrated the apathetic haze clouding his CPU.

He just couldn't bring himself to care.

He retrieved his ration in silence, returning the handful of greetings vocalized in his direction with indifferent shrugs and noncommittal grunts. Later on, he would be unable to recall who had spoken, or what they'd said to him.

None of it mattered.

He sank heavily into a seat at a vacant table near the door, taking a sip from his cube. He noted absently that this week's energon had the heavy, _organic_ quality that indicated it had been refined from one of Earth's fossilized fuel sources – his least favorite formulation. Not that he'd ever complained – the humans donated what they could, and the Autobots were grateful for whatever fuel they were given – but the unpleasant sensation of it sluggishly suffusing his systems did little to improve his mood.

Spotting Trailbreaker seated at a table across the room with Hound and Mirage didn't help much, either.

If nothing else, seeing the defense strategist confirmed that his emotion chip was still operational – Trailbreaker looked every bit as miserable as Wheeljack felt, and the sight of him sent a pang of loss and guilt through his spark that made him bow his helm in defeat.

He knew there was no point in trying to talk to Trailbreaker; Hound would surely intervene. Wheeljack doubted Trailbreaker would be willing to listen anyway, even if he'd been alone. If Trailbreaker had wanted to talk to him, he wouldn't have allowed his best friend to run interference while he fled the room last night. He'd made his feelings on the subject of Wheeljack abundantly clear.

Trailbreaker wanted nothing to do with him.

Nevertheless, Wheeljack's gaze was pulled back to him again and again, drawn to that dark form like iron filings to a magnet. He couldn't resist snatching brief, surreptitious glances in Trailbreaker's direction, hoping against hope that he might somehow catch his optics.

But Trailbreaker never looked up; his optics remained fixed on the cube in front of him, dim and lifeless.

Hound was making an obvious effort to boost his friend's spirits, exhibiting an aura of false cheer so forced it was almost painful to watch as he endeavored to engage Trailbreaker in conversation. Mirage interjected occasionally in more moderate tones, evidently opting for a more delicate approach. Neither appeared to be having any effect; Trailbreaker's expression remained unchanged throughout, bleak and disconsolate, oblivious to their efforts.

Wheeljack's spark ached every time he looked at him, filling with a desperate longing that was agonizing to endure, but he kept glancing over anyway, torturing himself with vain, fruitless hope.

It was better than feeling _nothing_.

He was now running perilously late – if he didn't leave within the next few astroseconds, he wouldn't make it to the repair bay in time for his shift – but he couldn't bring himself to leave. This might be the closest he got to Trailbreaker all day – a handful of stolen glances across a crowded room.

The thought made him look over again as he dawdled over his cube.

Hound was staring right at him.

Their optics met, and for a moment they were both too startled to react, caught in the act of looking. Wheeljack averted his gaze quickly, not wanting to invite a repeat of their previous confrontation, but in the astrosecond before he looked away, he noticed Hound's expression wasn't quite what he'd been expecting. Hound's posture was tense and strained, his expression clearly conflicted, but the look he'd been giving him had seemed more wary and contemplative than the overtly hostile.

Wheeljack prayed that meant Hound had thought better of causing another scene, that the presence of Mirage had tempered his desire to launch another attack in defense of his best friend, injecting him with a dose of discretion, but kept his optics locked on the cube in front of him anyway, his spark pulsing with anxiety. He heard them rise and make their way toward the exit, pretending to be lost in thought as they moved past his table.

Hazarding a wary glance upward, he discovered Mirage had fallen a few steps behind Trailbreaker and Hound, and was only just now passing him. Mirage paused as Wheeljack looked up, meeting his gaze with a look of understanding and favoring him with a small, sad, sympathetic smile before following in the wake of his departing companions.

Wheeljack lingered for another klik, preferring to face Ratchet's wrath than risk running into them again in the hallway, then subspaced his cube and headed for repair bay.

x.x.x.x.x

He arrived several kliks late.

For once, Ratchet didn't scold or berate him for his tardiness; all Wheeljack received from the CMO was a reproachful glare. He greeted Ratchet with a perfunctory nod, muttering an apology as he made his way to his workstation to begin checking his tools, ensuring they were in place and ready for use.

There were no patients in repair bay that morning; he and Ratchet were on call in the event that the Decepticons attacked or an Autobot experienced urgent maintenance issues or suffered an accidental injury, but no tasks presently awaited their attention. Normally Wheeljack enjoyed shifts like this, ones where he was essentially assigned to spend the day in idle company with his best friend, but today he took no pleasure in it.

His routine preparatory tasks provided little distraction, and were all too quickly discharged. Once they were completed, he sank into his chair, venting a heavy sigh as he stared dejectedly at the floor.

Trailbreaker didn't want him anymore.

He'd known that for days now, ever since the night Trailbreaker had thrown him out of his quarters, but the thought still struck like a physical blow, making his spark clench in agony.

But the truth was, even _that_ was a lie. He'd known all along Trailbreaker had never wanted the _real_ Wheeljack, the one who'd survived Starscream's assault. He'd tried to pretend that Trailbreaker did, that it didn't matter, but deep down he'd always known he was living on borrowed time, enjoying the undeserved affections of a mech he'd tricked into thinking he was worthy.

…at least until Trailbreaker saw through the ruse and ended it, confirming all of Wheeljack's fears.

But even knowing Trailbreaker's desire for him had never been real, Wheeljack could no longer deny that _he_ wanted _Trailbreaker_. The defense strategist occupied his every waking thought, filling him with a painful longing to see him, to hear his voice and feel his touch.

He wasn't sure when it had happened exactly, at what point in their association Trailbreaker had gone from being merely _convenient_ to being absolutely _necessary_ – Trailbreaker had crept in quietly, unassumingly, and slotted neatly into place within his spark like a piece of himself Wheeljack hadn't even known he was missing – but now that that piece was gone, he felt its absence more keenly than anything he'd ever lost.

He wanted him. He _needed_ him.

His spark pulsed in silent sympathy, as if to say, _I want him, too._

Wheeljack bowed his helm, recalling the look of commiseration Mirage had given him. Mirage knew his cause was futile, that he had no hope of winning Trailbreaker back. No gift, no sparkfelt plea would serve to regain Trailbreaker's affections.

He'd earned them under false pretenses.

"Everything all right, 'Jack?" Ratchet asked, interrupting his silent musings.

"What am I gonna do, Ratch?" he asked plaintively, raising his helm to meet his gaze.

Ratchet cocked his helm in confusion. "Do? About what?"

"Trailbreaker," he replied in a defeated tone.

"What do you mean?" Ratchet asked, eyeing him quizzically. "I thought you said it was over."

"It is," he confirmed miserably. "He probably hates me now. _Hound_ does."

Ratchet frowned. "I don't understand," he said.

Wheeljack shrugged, lowering his helm. "I don't know what to do," he said. "I don't know how to fix this."

Ratchet huffed irritably. "I warned you this would happen, 'Jack," he said. "_Exactly_ this! You didn't want to hear it."

He nodded. "You did," he conceded. "You were right all along."

Ratchet studied him for a long moment, and then vented a sigh through his intakes. "Beating yourself up over it won't help," he said grudgingly. "I know you feel bad about what happened, but what's done is done. You have to let it go."

"I just want him to talk to me again," he said quietly. "Just…talk to me."

"Bad idea," Ratchet opined. "Bad, _bad_ idea. Don't go making things worse, 'Jack; you've driven far enough down that road already. It's not fair to Trailbreaker, leading him on like –"

"I know, _I know!_" Wheeljack cut him off, his vocalizer crackling with frustration. "He doesn't want me! He _never_ wanted me! You think I don't _know_ that?"

Ratchet stared at him, startled. "What do you mean, _he_ doesn't want _you?_"

"He thinks he does," he replied morosely. "But he doesn't know about – it was all a lie!"

"Maybe you should tell him the truth," Ratchet suggested. "Who knows, it might help."

He shook his helm, "I can't do that, Ratch. You know I can't."

"I know you _think_ you can't," Ratchet countered. Wheeljack activated his vocalizer to protest, but Ratchet wasn't finished. "You can't keep lying to him, 'Jack," he said. "It's not _right._ Trailbreaker's a good mech, he deserves better. He deserves to know the truth."

He continued to shake his helm, even though he agreed with every word. "I can't tell him," he insisted. "If he ever found out…" he trailed off, his shoulder-struts slumping dejectedly. "He can never know, Ratch."

"Why not?" Ratchet retorted, pinning him with an angry glare. "Because you're too slagging _stubborn_ to admit what Starscream did to you? Too afraid it might dent your precious _pride?_"

Wheeljack stared at him, taken aback by the sheer amount of venom in Ratchet's tone. "No," he protested weakly. "You don't understand, he thinks I'm –!"

"You wanna _fix_ this, Wheeljack?" Ratchet said harshly, his optics flashing. "I'll tell you how to fix it – stop _lying_ and do what you should have done from the beginning! Tell Trailbreaker the truth!"

"I _can't!_" he said vehemently.

"_Why not?_" Ratchet shouted back.

"Because if I do, he'll wish he'd never_ touched_ me!" he blurted out, his vocal indicators flashing stridently.

Ratchet froze, his mouth open in mid-retort, a look of shock etched on his faceplate.

Wheeljack buried his helm in his shaking hands, overcome with shame. He sank to the floor in a crumpled heap, quaking with the sheer force of his own self-loathing.

A tense silence ensued.

After a few kliks, he heard the soft clank of a footstep, and a hand came to rest on his shoulder-strut. Wheeljack hunched them defensively, refusing to raise his helm, not wanting to meet Ratchet's pitying gaze.

"You need to talk to Hoist," Ratchet said quietly.

He shook his helm. "What good will that do?" he asked brokenly, his voice muffled by his hands, clogged with static, his vocal indicators flickering fitfully. "I'll still be – it won't _change_ anything."

"It will," Ratchet replied, his tone soft but firm. "He can help you, 'Jack. You don't have to face this alone."

He shook his helm again, despondently. "It's no use," he said. "It was never real."

"It might make it easier for you to talk about it," Ratchet said. "And maybe once you've come to terms with it, you can tell Trailbreaker."

Wheeljack choked out a bitter laugh. "Right, like _that'll_ make a difference."

"It might," Ratchet said.

"Yeah, sure," he retorted sarcastically. "Instead of thinking I'm an aft, he'll think I'm –"

"You can't decide for him, 'Jack," Ratchet interrupted gently. "You have to let him decide for himself. Who knows, he might surprise you."

He shook his helm helplessly. He couldn't do it. He couldn't risk giving up what little hope remained. Revealing the truth would cost him _everything_, deny him even the cold comfort of the illusion of Trailbreaker's esteem. Even if all he had left were memory files, they still offered him more solace than the thought of Trailbreaker looking at him with pity or disgust –

"Don't be like me, 'Jack," Ratchet said softly, breaking into his thoughts. "Don't make the same mistake I did. If you care about him, you have to tell him. Don't throw everything away because you're afraid he might say _no_. If you never tell him the truth, _no_'s the only answer you'll ever get."

He raised his helm in surprise, meeting Ratchet's optics. Sorrow lingered there, and loss, a look of regret so profound Wheeljack's spark throbbed in sympathy. He felt an odd sense of kinship with Ratchet, even though he knew he'd been the source of his friend's anguish.

"You were right to be afraid," he pointed out quietly, lowering his gaze. "I said no."

"_I_ said no," Ratchet corrected him. "It wouldn't have mattered what you'd said; by the time I got around to asking, it was already too late. I waited too long to speak up."

He thought on that for a moment, but after a klik he shook his helm. Ratchet's decision to hide his true feelings hadn't had anything to do with him being _unworthy_ – Ratchet was everything he'd presented himself to be. Ratchet had feared complicating their friendship; his own fears were far more grounded. "It's not the same, Ratch," he said. "You know he'll never say yes, not after he finds out –"

"I _don't_ know that," Ratchet interrupted, cutting him off. "And neither do you, 'Jack. The only way you'll _really_ know for sure is if you _tell_ him."

"And when he says no?" he asked. _And purges his tanks in disgust,_ he thought grimly.

"_If_ he says no," Ratchet insisted. "If he does…then at least you'll know you tried. It's better that way, 'Jack, believe me. Better than looking back and wondering."

He had to admit Ratchet had a point. If Ratchet considered his recent rejection less painful than the cycles he'd spent trapped in limbo, caught between longing and despair, Wheeljack was inclined to believe his friend's assertion was true. The thought of feeling like _this_ every joor, every orn, every cycle from this day forward, praying that Trailbreaker might somehow change his mind, knowing he probably never would –

Maybe it _would_ be better to know for sure. To admit defeat. To accept that it was really over.

He vented a heavy sigh. "Maybe you're right," he admitted. "Maybe I _should_ just tell him."

Ratchet gave him a look so startled Wheeljack had to repress the urge to toss one of his own wrenches at him. "What?" he demanded defensively. "That's what you want, isn't it?"

"I'm just surprised, that's all," Ratchet said placatingly. "It's good that you're willing to tell him."

He huffed irritably. "So how do I do it?" he asked.

"What do you mean?" Ratchet said, frowning.

"I mean, how do I _do_ it?" he repeated impatiently. "How exactly am I supposed to tell him, Ratch? How do I even bring it up?"

"You just…tell him," Ratchet said with a shrug, looking nonplussed.

"Right, sure, I'll just stroll up to him in the corridor and say, 'Hey Trailbreaker, how's it going? Nice weather we're having; last orn I got fragged by a 'Con'?" he retorted sarcastically, ignoring the way his vocalizer quavered over the words.

Ratchet smirked wryly. "Probably not the best approach."

He shook his helm, hauling himself wearily to his feet. "It doesn't matter," he said gloomily. "He won't listen. He can't even stand to _look_ at me."

_Might as well tell him the truth,_ he thought bitterly. _I've lost him either way._

"Maybe Hoist can give you some advice on that, too," Ratchet said.

He fell silent for a moment, considering. He didn't relish the thought of yet _another_ 'Bot finding out what had been done to him, but Hoist _was_ a colleague. Wheeljack respected him as a peer, knew him well enough from working alongside him in repair bay to know that Hoist never engaged in idle gossip, especially regarding his patients. Hoist was gregarious, yes, but for a mech who talked as much as he did, Hoist often said very little.

"I…guess I could talk to him," he agreed reluctantly.

Ratchet gave him a long look, his expression thoughtful and speculative. "I'll arrange an appointment," he said. "Would you prefer I brief him beforehand, or would you rather tell him yourself?"

Wheeljack activated his vocalizer to respond, but was interrupted by the sudden blare of a klaxon.

He and Ratchet exchanged a look. The sound was a familiar one; a call to arms. An astrosecond later they received a general comm ordering all available Autobots to report to the entrance of the _Ark_.

The Decepticons were attacking. They were on duty.

Evidently it wasn't going to be a quiet shift after all.

x.x.x.x.x

Wheeljack fought to quell the anxiety welling in his spark as they approached the main corridor, struggling to remain calm. Optimus had agreed to allow him back into combat, and he'd assured his commander he was ready and able. He couldn't back out now.

_I can handle this_, he told himself. _I'll be fine._

By the time they arrived, most of the available mechs were already gathered at the entrance – Ironhide, Prowl and Jazz, Windcharger, Cliffjumper, Sunstreaker and Sideswipe – and of course Optimus Prime, who immediately began relaying orders, filling them in on the situation.

"The Decepticons are staging another energon raid," Prime said as Wheeljack and Ratchet pulled up and transformed. "This time they've attacked a nuclear power plant. Our job, of course, is to stop them."

"Cliffjumper, Windcharger," Optimus said, "You're on recon. Roll out ahead and report back to Jazz with the Decepticons' positions."

"You got it, Optimus," Windcharger replied agreeably, transforming.

"Knew I should have brought along my sniper rifle," Cliffjumper muttered as he did the same.

Prime turned to the officers as the minibots drove off. "Jazz," he said, "I want you to relay their findings to Prowl and Ironhide. Ironhide, Prowl, use the information Jazz provides you to determine our tactics and formulate a battle plan, and deploy our forces accordingly. I'll handle Megatron."

"Sunstreaker, Sideswipe," Optimus said, addressing the frontliners, "Prowl's orders permitting, I want you to focus your attention on the Seekers. See if you can't take away some of Megatron's aerial advantage."

"All right!" Sideswipe replied eagerly. "Time for a little good old-fashioned jet judo!"

"This is going to be murder on my paint job," Sunstreaker griped, but his optics flashed in anticipation.

Wheeljack suppressed a burst of vicious glee at the thought of the treatment Starscream and the other Seekers would suffer at the hands of the notorious Lambo twins, but Optimus Prime's next words sent a chill through his spark.

"Trailbreaker," Optimus said, "I've been informed there are many humans working at the plant. Your job will be to shield them from harm. I would prefer to put a stop to this raid without human casualties."

"You can count on me, Prime," Trailbreaker replied soberly, allowing Wheeljack to place him on the far side of their commander, his large form blocked from view by Optimus' still larger frame. "I'll keep 'em safe."

He shot an alarmed look at Ratchet, but Optimus had already turned to address them, and Ratchet's attention was on their leader.

"Ratchet, Wheeljack," Optimus said, "I want the two of you on hand to perform any necessary field repairs. Keep your helms down and stay back unless you're needed."

"Understood, Prime," Ratchet replied tersely. Wheeljack nodded.

"Autobots, transform and roll out!"

x.x.x.x.x

Tension shot through Wheeljack's circuits as they neared the coordinates Optimus had provided. This was it; his true test. There would be no cheating this time, no convenient invulnerability to shield him from the terror pulsing in his spark. If he faltered in this battle, Optimus Prime would pull him off active duty, perhaps permanently.

He squelched the craven burst of longing he felt at the thought, repressing the brief impulse to fumble things deliberately to ensure he never saw combat again. He was _not_ a coward. He might have had to deal with Starscream's sensor-ghost squatting in his CPU, but he wasn't about to let the Seeker's trademark pusillanimity infect his normal mode of operation. He'd faced down Megatron himself once, something Starscream had never done without groveling.

_I'm not afraid,_ he told himself. _I'm _not_._

Prowl's orders came over the comm as they neared the plant, identifying the Decepticons involved and their positions – all six Seekers, Soundwave and his cassettes, Megatron himself, with Astrotrain acting as transport for the stolen energon cubes.

Optimus Prime led the first wave of the attack, flanked by Ironhide and Prowl, the remaining 'Bots hot on their heels. Wheeljack and Ratchet brought up the rear. Prime only had optics for Megatron, who turned too late to meet the Autobot leader's charge and was tackled to the ground, the earth shuddering with the impact of their massive frames. As the two titans grappled, the Seekers dropped the cubes they were holding and scattered, nimbly dodging the hail of laser fire the Autobots peppered them with as they took to the skies.

Sideswipe leapt into the air with a fiendish howl of unholy glee, launching himself at Thundercracker like a living bomb. The blue Seeker unleashed a sonic boom just as they collided, nearly drowning out the resounding clash of metal against metal, but Sideswipe swung himself astride the angry jet undaunted, and proceeded to tear at Thundercracker's wings with savage abandon as the Decepticon lurched and barrel-rolled, trying to escape his tormentor.

Not to be outdone by his twin, Sunstreaker launched a similar attack on Starscream, cursing as the agile Decepticon Air Commander evaded him, but consoled when a startled Skywarp blundered directly into his path. Never one to turn down an opportunity for violence, Sunstreaker gamely turned his attentions on the teleporter instead, smashing a fist through Skywarp's cockpit and ripping out whatever delicate internal components he could lay his hands on.

The remaining Autobots took cover behind various buildings and outcroppings of rock, firing off shots as they worked their way closer to where the stolen energon cubes were stacked in preparation for transport.

Soundwave stood his ground and shot back, ejecting Laserbeak and Buzzsaw to provide cover fire for Rumble and Frenzy as they continued to load energon into the waiting Astrotrain. Thrust, Ramjet and Dirge circled warily above, too cowed by the fate of their comrades at the hands of the frontliner twins to do more than stand guard over the energon, firing occasional shots at any Autobot who ventured too close.

Wheeljack looked around anxiously for Starscream, and spotted him harrying Sunstreaker and Sideswipe, darting in and out between them in an effort to aid his trinemates. Unable to use his null ray without risking hitting Thundercracker or Skywarp, Starscream was attempting to dislodge the clinging Autobot attackers with screaming dives and too-close-for-comfort passes.

Abruptly recalling that he was supposed to be _fighting_, not watching Starscream, Wheeljack tore his gaze off the Decepticon Air Commander and fired a few shots at the circling Coneheads, his aim once more frustrated by the renewed trembling of his hands. He glanced nervously at Ratchet, to see if the medic had registered his reaction, but Ratchet had other things on his processor – as Wheeljack glanced in his direction, Ratchet vaulted over the large rock they'd taken cover behind and went charging off across the battlefield.

Wheeljack immediately spied what had caught Ratchet's attention – Cliffjumper was down, his battered frame lying limp and unmoving. Wheeljack endeavored to provide cover fire for Ratchet as he tore across the rocky ground to reach the injured mech, dragging him to the relative shelter of a nearby building where he could safely begin to initiate repairs.

Left without the reassurance of Ratchet's galvanizing presence beside him, Wheeljack glanced around uneasily, trying to assess the status of the battle. Optimus and Megatron were still exchanging blows, seemingly oblivious to the battle raging on around them, focused solely on each other. Soundwave had evidently taken a hit; the Decepticon was down on one knee, damaged but still firing at the attacking Autobots, aided by Rumble and Frenzy, who had abandoned their efforts to load Astrotrain in favor of defending their "boss."

Thundercracker and Skywarp were down, forced out of the sky by Sunstreaker and Sideswipe, who continued their relentless assault even on the ground. Ramjet, Thrust and Dirge were still circling overhead, guarding the stack of energon cubes, doggedly refusing to be drawn out of formation as they traded shots with Ironhide, Windcharger and Prowl.

That was when Wheeljack spotted Jazz, sidling around the side of a building opposite, using its shadow to conceal himself from the Decepticons' view as he edged steadily closer to Astrotrain and the stolen energon. Prowl's plan instantly became clear – he and the other Autobots were merely a diversion, keeping the Decepticons' attention occupied while Jazz moved into position. A single well-placed shot from the Autobot saboteur would bring this battle to a spectacularly explosive conclusion.

The realization that his trial-by-fire would soon be over sent a surge of relief flashing through Wheeljack's circuits, but it was promptly replaced by another that shook him to the core.

He'd completely lost track of Starscream.

Casting about frantically, Wheeljack located the Seeker a reassuring distance away, engaged in what looked like a strafing run – but the energon in his lines froze when he identified Starscream's intended target.

_Trailbreaker._

The defense strategist was crouched over the glowing dome of a force field a short distance away, shielding a group of terrified-looking humans. As Wheeljack looked on in horror, Trailbreaker ducked his helm and hunkered down, standing his ground as Starscream's attack rained down on him, stoically enduring a bombardment of laser fire that left his plating scorched and smoking.

Wheeljack's spark contracted with dread. He knew with agonizing certainty that Trailbreaker would never abandon the humans to their fate, not when Optimus Prime had specifically ordered him to protect them. But Prime couldn't have anticipated that Starscream would seek to avenge his trinemates by venting his ire on the vulnerable humans who worked at the plant.

The humans were safe for the moment, thanks to Trailbreaker's indomitable courage, but Wheeljack knew they wouldn't remain so for long. Trailbreaker may have possessed remarkable endurance, but even he couldn't stand up to a prolonged assault. As powerful as his force field was, if Trailbreaker became too damaged to maintain it, the humans' fates would be sealed.

Starscream was already swinging around for another pass, his thirst for vengeance evidently unslaked. Wheeljack didn't realize he'd flung himself over the rock and transformed until he felt the jolt through his shocks as he landed on the other side, but by then he was already in motion, the wheels of his alt mode spinning before they even met the ground, kicking up a massive cloud of dust as he shot across the battlefield amid a squeal of tires and the stench of burning rubber.

He arrived within astroseconds, transforming alongside the beleaguered Trailbreaker and his human charges just as Starscream descended once more into weapons range. The tremors wracking his frame made it impossible to establish a solid targeting lock, causing the crosshairs in his HUD to leap around erratically, but he fired anyway, launching one of his gyro-inhibitor shells at Starscream as the Decepticon swooped down to unleash his second barrage.

He scored a direct hit.

Wheeljack watched in shock and disbelief as his shell exploded against Starscream's cockpit and sent the Seeker's systems into disarray, forcing him to crash land just beyond them with a thunderous report, skidding several meters over the rocky ground on the belly of his alt mode before finally grating to a halt.

He glanced at Trailbreaker, meeting his equally stunned optics for a startled moment before the screeching sound of warped and protesting metal captured their attention.

Starscream was attempting to transform.

As one, they turned to face him as Starscream struggled to revert to his root mode, watching as the Seeker fought to pull himself to his feet. The disorienting effects of Wheeljack's gyro-inhibitor foiled his efforts, causing Starscream to reel and stumble drunkenly before finally collapsing to the ground on his hands and knees in an unwieldy heap.

From beneath the shelter of Trailbreaker's force field, the humans tittered nervously.

Starscream's faceplate contorted with rage at the sound, his optics blazing a livid crimson. He lifted his helm, pinning Wheeljack in place with a murderous glare that turned his backstruts to ice.

Wheeljack raised his weapon shakily, pointing it at the downed Seeker, his plating rattling audibly as he quaked in terror, violent tremors assaulting his frame.

"Fire, Autobot," Starscream goaded malevolently. "Kill me, _if_ you can."

Wheeljack choked back a thready keen, a deluge of memory files flooding his cache in response to that hated voice, that contemptuous tone. His hand shook, causing the barrel of his gun to waver, but at this range he knew he wouldn't miss, even without a targeting lock. His finger tensed on the trigger –

"I should have killed you when I had the chance," Starscream snarled disdainfully, scowling at him with manifest disgust. "You'd served your purpose. To think that I, _Starscream_, showed mercy to an _Autobot_."

Wheeljack's optics widened in alarm. He shot a horrified look at Trailbreaker, who was frowning, looking understandably puzzled by Starscream's statement. Trailbreaker's attention was focused on the damaged Seeker, but Starscream, Wheeljack soon discovered, had been watching _him_.

"Oh _dear_," Starscream purred insincerely, smirking with malicious glee. "Let me guess. You never _told_ anyone."

Starscream's words hit him like a blast of liquid nitrogen, suffusing his circuits with bitter, biting cold, freezing his servos and CPU. His finger was poised on the trigger of his weapon, but he couldn't transmit the command to fire. He was immobilized, unable to function.

Just like he'd been _that day_.

Starscream laughed viciously. "Our little secret," he cackled. "How _pathetic._ You know, I never did thank you, Autobot. It was so _kind_ of you to assist me. But then again, perhaps _you_ should be the one thanking _me_. We both know how much you _enjoyed_ it."

His frozen joints abruptly gave way, the hydraulics in his legs depressurizing, bringing him to his knees. He sank to the ground, too weak to stand. He stared blankly, his optics wide and unseeing, besieged by an onslaught of memory files inundating his cache, triggered by Starscream's cruel voice and malignant presence.

Some part of him was distantly aware that he was shaking, that a low, wavering keen was issuing steadily from his vocalizer, but he was helpless to do anything about it. The only clear thought that passed through his processor was the knowledge that Trailbreaker was _right_ _there_, witnessing it all.

That was when he heard Trailbreaker's voice.

"What did you do to him?" Trailbreaker demanded, his vocalizer strained by a curious mix of anger and bewilderment.

"More than you, I suspect," Starscream replied mockingly, his poisonous smirk evident in his tone.

Trailbreaker's response was drowned out by an explosion that shook the ground, knocking the humans off their feet. Jazz, it seemed, had finally reached his goal.

Wheeljack heard Megatron bellowing in rage, calling for a retreat. He wanted to look up, to confirm for himself that the battle was over, that the Decepticons were really leaving, but he couldn't raise his helm, couldn't tear his optics away from the small patch of barren ground directly in front of him.

A moment later he heard the distinctive roar of jet engines, followed by heavy thuds of feet striking the earth. There was a sound of movement, of pressurizing hydraulics and the clank and scrape of metal against metal.

"Hurry up," Starscream rasped impatiently.

"Be glad we bothered to retrieve your busted aft at all, _Commander_," someone – Ramjet, he thought – retorted wryly.

"What about them?" another, deeper voice – Dirge? – asked.

"I say we blast 'em," Ramjet replied.

Tension sang through Wheeljack's frame as he detected the low whine of weapons being charged. A shimmering barrier abruptly appeared in front of him, several bright flashes striking it and bouncing off, hissing and spitting before fizzling harmlessly away, causing the humans to cry out in fear.

"Fragging force field," Dirge grumbled. "Slag this, we're wasting energon."

Jet engines roared to life again, at first impossibly loud, then slowly fading into the distance.

The glowing barrier disappeared.

"You're safe now," he heard Trailbreaker saying. "You can all go home." A jumbled chorus of thank-yous and other expressions of gratitude arose in response.

There was a brief pause, followed by a scraping noise and the sound of shifting metal, and then Trailbreaker's broad frame filled his field of vision, crouching down to meet his gaze.

"Are you all right?" Trailbreaker asked.

Wheeljack stared into those worried optics, and couldn't make a sound.

_He knows. He_ _knows –!_

Trailbreaker glanced up as the low rumble of an approaching engine reached their audials, a look of relief flashing across his faceplate. Wheeljack heard the sound of a transformation, and then Ratchet's familiar voice asking, "What happened?"

"Starscream attacked us," Trailbreaker explained quickly. "I took a few hits, but I'm all right, don't worry about me. Something's wrong with Wheeljack; he's not moving!"

"Null ray?" Ratchet asked.

"No," Trailbreaker replied in consternation. "He never took a hit! He just…" he trailed off, gesturing helplessly in Wheeljack's direction.

"Right," Ratchet said crisply. Wheeljack heard him transform again. "Load him in, let's get him back to base. The others are rolling out."

Trailbreaker turned back to face him, frowning faintly. "You're gonna be okay," he said quietly. He bent down to lift him, his strong arms gentle, holding Wheeljack securely against his chestplate as he carried him over to where Ratchet was waiting.

Wheeljack lay limp and unresisting in his arms, soothed by the familiar warmth emanating from Trailbreaker's chassis as he loaded him carefully into the back of Ratchet's alt mode. His spark contracted painfully, realizing this would probably be the last time Trailbreaker ever touched him. He raised a shaky hand in a weak attempt to stay him, but managed only the barest brush of his fingertips against his arm as Trailbreaker withdrew.

The fleeting touch caught Trailbreaker's attention, and for a moment he hesitated, gazing down at Wheeljack with troubled optics. "It's gonna be okay," he reassured him again, and then straightened, lowering the door and closing him in, cutting himself off from view.

A wave of despair washed over him. It wasn't going to be okay. It would never be okay again.

It was over.


	31. Admission

**Title: **After Atlantis  
**Obligatory Disclaimer:** I don't own Transformers.  
**Warnings: **PTSD angst, references to rape, references to sex.  
**Author's Note:** Yay for rapid updates! Convalescence is cool. The final chapter will probably take longer. I broke 200 reviews with the last one, which just blows me away, so thanks to everyone for reading and reviewing. The moment has finally arrived for 'Jack to come clean – hope it doesn't disappoint!

**Chapter 31: Admission**

The majority of the ride back to the _Ark_ passed in silence.

As far as Wheeljack was concerned, there was nothing to talk about. It was over. He'd lost everything.

His trembling gradually began to subside, and he thought he might have regained control of his limbs, but he had no desire to move them. His spark felt cold and dead in its chamber, his processor numb.

_*How are you doing, 'Jack?*_ Ratchet commed him as they neared the base.

Wheeljack stared up at the roof of Ratchet's interior compartment and made no effort to respond.

There was a pause. _*C'mon, Wheeljack, talk to me.*_

He turned onto his side, curling in on himself. He had nothing to say.

Another pause. He heard Ratchet muttering something to himself, but couldn't make out the words.

_*I'm taking you to repair bay,*_ Ratchet said finally. _*We'll figure out what to do when we get there.*_

Until that moment, Wheeljack's processor had been singularly occupied with the terrible certainty that he'd lost Trailbreaker forever. Trailbreaker had learned the truth, seen him for what he truly was. But Ratchet's words reminded him that losing Trailbreaker was only the worst of the day's repercussions – his exposure had been a public spectacle, and Trailbreaker's reaction was not the only one Wheeljack had reason to fear.

Trailbreaker may have been the only _direct_ witness, but by now the other Autobots involved in the battle would have noticed his failure to return to the _Ark_ under his own power. There would be questions. They'd want to know what happened, the extent of his injuries. They'd demand an explanation.

…all except for Optimus Prime. Optimus would understand all too well. This battle had been Wheeljack's final test, and he'd failed it spectacularly. Prime would never trust his word again.

The fact that Ratchet seemed willing to try and cover for him was of little consolation. Even if Ratchet _did_ manage to come up with a plausible excuse for what had happened on the battlefield, Optimus Prime would recognize the lie for what it was. Assuming Prime took Ratchet's lead and did the same, Wheeljack might be spared the humiliation of the whole _Ark_ learning the truth, but the rumors would fly anyway – that he was somehow defective, that he'd frozen up in battle, that he'd been hauled back to the Ark in disgrace. There would be no subtle rearrangement of the duty schedule this time. Prowl and Jazz would be told outright to restrict him from combat, and even if they accepted that order without question, everyone would know something was wrong with him.

_Trailbreaker_ would know.

The thought of facing them all, of being forced to live from day to day under that degree of scrutiny…

Wheeljack offlined his optics in despair, shutting down his primary systems.

x.x.x.x.x

He was roused from standby mode by the familiar sound of Ratchet yelling.

"– have I told you about charging into battle half-cocked? You nearly got yourself slagged this time!"

"It was worth it," he heard Cliffjumper argue belligerently. "I nailed Soundwave, didn't I?"

"And then he turned around and nailed _you_," Ratchet retorted. "My point stands. You pull a stunt like that again, and I'll weld your aft to a bulkhead until you learn to use your processor for something other than a blunt object. Got it?"

"Got it," Cliffjumper muttered mutinously. A moment later Wheeljack heard the clank of his retreating footsteps.

"Let's have a look at you now," Ratchet said. "Any pain? Where were you hit?"

"I'm fine," Trailbreaker's deep voice replied. "But what about –?"

"I'll be the judge of that, if you don't mind," Ratchet interrupted tartly. There was a pause, presumably while the medic ran a scan. "Damage appears to be superficial," he concluded gruffly. "You're lucky you've got thick plating. You'll be fine in half a joor. You're free to go."

"I'm staying right here," Trailbreaker said.

"That's really not necessary," Ratchet said as Wheeljack tensed on the berth. "Why don't you go and refuel? You can check back later if you like."

"I'm not leaving," Trailbreaker replied stubbornly. "Report me for insubordination if you want; I'm not going anywhere. You want me out, you're gonna have to throw me out."

Ratchet huffed impatiently. "I appreciate that you're worried about him," he said, "but there's really no reason to –"

"Something's going on," Trailbreaker insisted. "And I think you know what it is."

"I don't know what you mean," Ratchet replied evasively.

"I _saw_ him, Ratchet!" Trailbreaker exploded. "He completely locked up! I may not be a medic, but I _know_ that's not normal! And you – when I told you what happened, you didn't even look _surprised!_

There was a startled pause.

"Something's going on, and I wanna know what," Trailbreaker persisted, his voice returning to its usual register. "So no, I'm not leaving. Not until you tell me what's wrong with Wheeljack."

Ratchet vented a sigh. "It's…complicated."

"What do you mean, _complicated?_" Trailbreaker demanded. "Just tell me!"

"I can't," Ratchet said. "That information is strictly confidential."

Wheeljack relaxed, the tension ebbing from his servos. Ratchet may have once threatened to reveal his secret to Trailbreaker, but obviously he'd never had any real intention of doing so. His secret was safe.

"I don't understand," Trailbreaker said, and Wheeljack could hear his puzzled frown in his tone.

"I'm sorry," Ratchet said. "That's all I can tell you."

"Starscream said something about Wheeljack helping him," Trailbreaker mused thoughtfully. "But that can't be right – Wheeljack would never do that! He'd never work for the 'Cons!"

"You're right," Ratchet said quietly. "He wouldn't."

"Ratchet, please," Trailbreaker entreated. "Please, there must be _something_ you can tell me."

Ratchet hesitated, venting another heavy sigh. "You remember the day we fought those Sub-Atlanticans?" he asked.

"Yeah," Trailbreaker said.

Wheeljack tensed again, his hydraulics pressurizing. This couldn't be happening; Ratchet didn't seriously intend to –

"Well then you know Wheeljack came back badly damaged that day," Ratchet said.

"I remember," Trailbreaker replied as Wheeljack struggled frantically to reboot his systems. "Hound said Wheeljack let himself get captured so that he and the others could escape."

"That's right," Ratchet said, "and while they had him –"

"Ratchet, _no!_" Wheeljack exclaimed, sitting bolt upright in the berth. "Don't tell him!"

The two mechs turned to stare at him in surprise.

Wheeljack stared back, realizing too late he'd just made it painfully clear there was something to tell.

"What's going on, Wheeljack?" Trailbreaker asked, frowning with concern.

Wheeljack looked at him, his spark clenching in agony. _I can't tell him. He'll hate me._ Feeling trapped and desperate, he looked to Ratchet for help.

Ratchet shook his helm sadly. "Just tell him, 'Jack," he said. "It's long overdue."

Wheeljack looked back at Trailbreaker, who was regarding him expectantly, awaiting his response.

Wheeljack lowered his helm. He didn't even know where to begin.

Trailbreaker looked from him to Ratchet and back again. "The Sub-Atlanticans…they took you prisoner," he said hesitantly. "Did they…_do_ something to you?"

"No," he replied listlessly, not bothering to raise his helm. "I mean, yeah, but…no."

Trailbreaker stared at him in confusion, baffled by his response. "I don't understand."

"They used a new kind of weapon on him," Ratchet volunteered. "Some sort of energy-draining device. Wiped out most of his primary systems."

"That _would_ be scary," Trailbreaker agreed, nodding sympathetically. But then he frowned. "Wait – I remember now, Hound got hit with that weapon, too," he said. "But he was okay; he said the energy discharge when Grimlock destroyed it revived everyone. Were you too far away? And what does all this have to do with Starscream?"

"They used it on him, too," he said quietly. "After Nergill shot me, he used his weapon on Starscream."

Trailbreaker's frown deepened. "Starscream was the one that took the weapon _away_ from Nergill," he said. "That's what Hound told me. He didn't say anything about Starscream being damaged."

"No," he agreed bitterly. "By then I'm sure he wasn't."

Trailbreaker stared at him in disbelief. "You _did_ help him," he said, his optics widening. "After both of you got shot, you repaired Starscream so he could stop Nergill."

"Yeah," he admitted. "I guess you could say that."

"'Jack," Ratchet said, his vocalizer soft but stern, "We've talked about this. It wasn't your fault."

"Yes it was," he said tonelessly. "I let myself get captured. I let them use me to create that weapon. And then I let Starscream –"

"You were _immobilized_," Ratchet insisted. "You didn't have a choice."

Trailbreaker looked back and forth between them, a renewed expression of confusion on his faceplate. "Immobilized?" he asked.

"Yeah," Ratchet confirmed. "He was barely functional – weren't you, 'Jack?" he said with a pointed look.

Wheeljack looked away, avoiding his optics.

"But if you couldn't move, how did you repair Starscream?" Trailbreaker asked.

Wheeljack shook his helm ruefully. Trailbreaker looked at Ratchet, his optics questioning.

"Starscream didn't need repairs," Ratchet said. "Not really. He just needed to restore energy to his systems in order to recover – just like Hound and the others."

Trailbreaker frowned. "Okay…" he said slowly. "So how did he –?"

"I can't do this, Ratch," Wheeljack interrupted him, static creeping into his vocalizer. "I _can't_."

"You can," Ratchet said encouragingly. "You're stronger than you think."

Wheeljack cycled a shaky draft of air through his intakes, clasping his hands together tightly in an effort to quell their trembling. "He…" he began, but was cut off by a burst of static.

He reset his vocalizer and tried again, bowing his helm, keeping his optics locked on his hands. "Starscream…used me," he admitted.

Trailbreaker cocked his helm in bewilderment. "What do you mean?" he asked. "You mean he tricked you? Convinced you to help him and then turned on you?"

"No," he gritted out, his grip on his hands tightening until pain shot up his arms and the metal creaked in protest, forcing the words from his vocalizer. "I mean he plugged into me. And then he made me –"

He was interrupted by two distinct sounds that occurred almost simultaneously – Trailbreaker's sudden sharp intake of air, and the quiet hiss of Ratchet's hydraulics depressurizing.

"_Primus_," Trailbreaker whispered.

Wheeljack forced himself look up, to meet Trailbreaker's gaze. Trailbreaker was staring at him with a stunned expression, his mouth hanging open in shock, his optics wide with horror.

But even as he watched, Trailbreaker's optics dimmed and flickered, his CPU responding to what was no doubt a veritable deluge of memory files rearranging themselves in light of this new information. Shame burned through his circuits as Trailbreaker's look of shock slowly shifted into something far worse.

_Pity_.

"Primus," Trailbreaker said again, clearly shaken. "That was why you –"

"Don't," he pleaded, hiding his faceplate in his hands, overwhelmed by shame. "Don't say it."

"Jack –" Ratchet said sadly.

As requested, Trailbreaker didn't say a word.

He embraced him.

Wheeljack stiffened in surprise, but only for a moment. He was in Trailbreaker's arms again, pressed tight against the broad, solid warmth of his chestplate, filled with a sense of relief so profound it _hurt_, as if some foreign object lodged deep within his spark had suddenly broken free. The next thing he knew, he was clinging to the larger mech in something like desperation, keening and quaking with sweet, terrible agony.

He tried to apologize, to offer some excuse, but his vocalizer was so clogged with static and feedback his efforts were largely incoherent; he could only choke out, "I couldn't – I tried to –"

Trailbreaker only squeezed tighter, holding him crushingly close. "It's okay," he whispered. "It's okay."

"I'm sorry," he keened brokenly. "I'm so sorry."

"It's all right," Trailbreaker said. "I understand now."

"Why don't we take this into my office?" Ratchet suggested.

They looked up at him in surprise, abruptly recalling that they weren't alone, the repair bay was a semi-public place. Trailbreaker looked at Wheeljack. "All right with you?" he asked quietly.

He nodded mutely, struggling to get his emotions back under control. Trailbreaker released him, much to Wheeljack's regret, and followed along quietly as they relocated to Ratchet's office.

"Have a seat," Ratchet said, motioning towards the visitor's chairs. "I've got some high-grade if you think you might need it."

"Maybe later," Trailbreaker replied absently, his optics on Wheeljack as the engineer settled himself into a chair, drawing his feet up to the edge and curling in on himself.

"Ratchet!" a voice bellowed from the other room. "Where are you, you slagger? This is a medical emergency!"

Ratchet huffed in exasperation. "Looks like I've been summoned," he said. "Feel free to seal the door behind me." With that he went out, returning to the larger room they'd just vacated. A moment later they heard him demand acerbically, "What is it _this_ time, Sunstreaker?"

"There's a dent in my chassis!" Sunstreaker cried in tones of near-hysteria. "A _dent_, Ratchet! I was in the 'racks, touching up my paint job, and that's when I saw it – this huge, hideous _eyesore!_"

"All right, all right, calm down," Ratchet said. "I'll bang it out for you."

There was a pause.

"…where is it?" Ratchet asked.

"_Where is it,_ he says!" Sunstreaker shouted. "This is no time for _jokes_, Ratchet! You have to fix it _right now!_"

"Maybe you should have called Perceptor," Ratchet muttered wryly. "Oh, wait – there it is. I see it now."

There was another pause.

"Are you _sure_ that's a dent?" Ratchet asked. "Maybe it's just dirt."

"_Dirt!_ On _my_ chassis? I didn't come here to be _insulted_, Ratchet!"

Inside Ratchet's office, Trailbreaker and Wheeljack exchanged glances.

Trailbreaker lip components twitched. "I guess everyone's having a crisis tonight," he said.

Wheeljack chuckled, his vocal indicators flickering, but after a moment he sobered again. "Yeah," he said quietly, winding his arms around his drawn-up knees. "I guess so."

Trailbreaker eased carefully into the seat next to him. "I don't know what to say," he said. "It's so awful – but of course you knew that," he amended abashedly.

"Yeah," he said.

"I guess that's why you looked so scared the first time I asked you," Trailbreaker ventured hesitantly.

"Yeah," he agreed.

"But you came by that night anyway," Trailbreaker said, his tone a question.

"Yeah," he said again, shrugging awkwardly. "I…I thought it maybe would help."

A look of hurt flashed through Trailbreaker's optics. "I'm guessing it didn't," he said. "The next morning, you said it was a mistake. That it was too soon."

Wheeljack nodded. "Yeah," he said. "It was."

"But you still agreed to spend time with me afterward," Trailbreaker said with a hint of reproach. "You said you _wanted_ to."

"I _did_ want to," he replied. "I just didn't wanna – I liked hanging out with you."

Trailbreaker looked surprised, then thoughtful – and then pained. "_That's_ why you never touched me, or asked me to 'face with you," he said, stricken. "You never _wanted_ to – you just _let_ me because you liked spending time with me –!"

Wheeljack reached out hesitantly, touching his arm, causing Trailbreaker to turn to look at him. "It wasn't like that," he said. "You didn't make me. I wanted to."

Trailbreaker shook his helm, agonized. "No wonder you acted so – Primus, I'm such an _idiot!_"

"You didn't make me," he insisted. "You asked. You _waited_."

Trailbreaker looked at him, his optics full of fearful hope.

Wheeljack nodded, affirming his unspoken question. "It's okay," he said. "I wanted to."

"But you didn't want to uplink with me," Trailbreaker said. "That was why; because Starscream –"

"Yeah," he admitted, withdrawing his hand.

"I wish you'd told me," Trailbreaker said, shaking his helm ruefully, seemingly unable to look at him. "If I'd known, I never would have asked you to –"

"I know," he interrupted quietly. "I'm sorry."

"What about you and Ratchet?" Trailbreaker asked, his gaze falling on Ratchet's desk. "Was that what you two were fighting about?"

"Yeah," he said. "He wanted me to tell you."

"Why didn't you?" Trailbreaker asked.

"How could I?" he said, a renewed crackle of static invading his vocalizer. "If you knew I – if I told you, you wouldn't want me anymore! You'd know I was –"

"You _do_ like me," Trailbreaker said, turning to stare at him in surprise, his voice soft and startled.

Wheeljack nodded, lowering his helm. "Yeah," he said. Trailbreaker was finally looking at him, staring so hard Wheeljack could feel the weight of his optics without even raising his helm. "It's...okay if you don't anymore," he said, fighting to keep the strain from his vocalizer, trying to be strong. "I understand if you hate me now."

A hand came to rest on his shoulder-strut, compelling him to look up. Trailbreaker was gazing down at him sorrowfully, his optics filled with a mixture of fondness and sympathy.

"I don't hate you," Trailbreaker said softly. "I _love_ you, Wheeljack."

Wheeljack stared at him for a moment in disbelief, but then shook his helm. "No you don't," he said. "You love the _old_ me, not…" he faltered, had to force his vocalizer to transmit the words, "not the _defective_ one."

Trailbreaker gave him a sharp look. "You are _not_ defective," he said, sounding almost angry.

Wheeljack bowed his helm and looked away, unconvinced.

"Primus," Trailbreaker whispered, almost to himself. "Now it all makes sense."

"Ratchet wants me to talk to Hoist," he volunteered reluctantly. "He says he can help me."

"Then you should do it," Trailbreaker replied simply.

"He'll make me talk about it," he said, the fuel in his tanks lurching at the thought. "Everyone wants me to _talk_ about it."

"Sometimes talking helps," Trailbreaker said. "I wish you'd talked to me."

He shrugged guiltily, hunching down in his chair, hugging his knees close to his chestplate.

"Are you sorry you did?" Trailbreaker asked. "Do you regret that you finally told me?"

Wheeljack thought about that for a moment, then shook his helm. "No," he admitted. "At least now you're talking to me."

"Maybe it'll be the same with Hoist," Trailbreaker reasoned. "Maybe he really can help you. Maybe you'll be glad you did."

"Maybe," he allowed. "I hadn't thought of that."

"There's one other thing I think you haven't thought of," Trailbreaker said. "I barely knew the _old_ Wheeljack."

Wheeljack straightened, lifting his helm to stare at him in surprise.

Trailbreaker smiled, gazing down at him fondly. "I fell for the new one."

x.x.x.x.x

Ratchet came in before Wheeljack could formulate a coherent reply, having finally escaped from Sunstreaker and his "emergency" repair.

"I don't know about you two," Ratchet grumbled as the door hissed shut behind him, "but I think I could use some of that high-grade right about now."

Trailbreaker and Wheeljack exchanged a look; Wheeljack shook his helm minutely. He didn't think getting overcharged would do much to improve his current mood.

"I think we'll pass," Trailbreaker said, turning his gaze back to Ratchet. "But if you've got any standard energon lying around, I wouldn't say no to a cube."

Ratchet looked at Wheeljack; Wheeljack nodded. "Sure," Ratchet said. "I've got a backup supply on hand. Wait right here."

Wheeljack slouched back down in his chair as Ratchet ducked out again, wrapping his arms tightly around his chestplate, his spark pulsing with a curious blend of relief and apprehension. Trailbreaker didn't hate him, wasn't angry that Wheeljack had lied to him, but he _was_ behaving differently.

Not that Wheeljack blamed him. Under the circumstances, Trailbreaker was handling things remarkably well, far better than he'd expected.

He just wished Trailbreaker didn't seem quite so reluctant to touch him.

Ratchet returned bearing three rations of energon, which he distributed silently between them. Wheeljack accepted his cube with a grateful nod, Trailbreaker with a quiet, "Thanks, doc."

Ratchet leaned back against his desk wearily, raising his cube, "Here's to a quiet end to a long, difficult day."

"I'll drink to that," Trailbreaker replied emphatically, taking a healthy swig from his cube.

Wheeljack sipped his own more cautiously, wary of how his systems would react. His fuel tanks felt vaguely unsettled; not quite like he wanted to purge, but not exactly _normal_, either.

"So, everything okay with you two?" Ratchet asked, regarding them inquiringly.

"We're all right, I think," Trailbreaker replied, glancing at Wheeljack.

Wheeljack nodded, "Yeah."

Ratchet looked like he wanted to say something more, but merely took another sip from his cube. The others did the same, and for several kliks they refueled in semi-awkward silence.

It was Trailbreaker who finally broke it, downing the last of his energon and dispersing the cube. "We should probably call it a night," he said, glancing at Wheeljack again. "It's getting kinda late."

Wheeljack subspaced the remainder of his own cube; he'd consumed barely a quarter of it. He didn't feel much like recharging, either. More accurately, he didn't feel like returning to his quarters and _attempting_ to recharge. His close encounter with Starscream today had refreshed all the memory files in his cache, which meant he'd undoubtedly find himself facing another round of sensor echoes the moment he initiated his cycle.

But he also knew he couldn't hide out in Ratchet's office forever, so he nodded in response to Trailbreaker's questioning look.

Ratchet appeared to have come to the same conclusion; half a klik later they were filing out of the office and making their way down the corridor, heading for the residential section of the _Ark_.

They reached Ratchet's quarters first – the CMO's living space was assigned based on its proximity to repair bay – where Ratchet bade them good night, giving Wheeljack a look that clearly said, _comm me if you need me._ Wheeljack nodded in acknowledgment, grateful for his friend's support, but knew even as he did so that he wouldn't be taking Ratchet up on his offer.

At least not tonight.

After Ratchet's, Wheeljack's quarters were the closest; Trailbreaker accompanied him to them in silence. Each time Wheeljack hazarded a sidelong glance in his direction, he found Trailbreaker staring straight ahead, seemingly lost in thought.

Not once did Trailbreaker make any attempt to touch him.

Wheeljack paused when they reached his door, a strange feeling almost akin to dread clutching at his spark. He hesitated, his hand poised to key in the locking code, wondering which he feared more – the thought of recharging alone, plagued by sensor echoes, or the thought of asking Trailbreaker to join him and being rejected, or worse, seeing Trailbreaker's expression contort with disgust.

Trailbreaker gave him an inquiring look as he hesitated.

That decided him. He _had_ to know. He could deal with the sensor ghosts, but not the uncertainty. The thought of remaining online for joors – lying alone on his berth, staring up at the ceiling, wondering if Trailbreaker was secretly repulsed by him and would never touch him again – was more than Wheeljack could bear.

Summoning every ounce of his courage, he activated his vocalizer. "…do you want to come in?" he asked quietly, not turning around. He didn't want to look at him. If Trailbreaker's response was negative, Wheeljack knew his expression would be burned into his memory core forever.

For a tense moment Trailbreaker said nothing at all. Then he replied, "Sure, I could come in for a klik."

Wheeljack's spark sank. Granted, it wasn't an outright refusal, but neither was it encouraging. He keyed in the locking code quickly, praying Trailbreaker wouldn't change his mind.

They stepped inside, the door sliding shut behind them. Steeling himself, Wheeljack activated the lights and turned to face him, feeling more like he was facing down a firing squad.

It didn't help that Trailbreaker looked _good_. The minor scuffs and scorch marks he'd acquired in today's battle did nothing to detract from Trailbreaker's overall appearance, instead lending a rugged, dependable quality that only added to his appeal.

Looking at him made Wheeljack's spark ache.

For a long moment they stared at one another, neither moving nor speaking.

_Please_, he thought desperately. _Please touch me_.

But Trailbreaker didn't move. He just stood there, looking at him expectantly.

He had to know. He _had_ to. Even if it hurt abominably.

Moving quickly before he lost his nerve, Wheeljack closed the short distance between them and reached for him, laying a cautious hand against Trailbreaker's chestplate.

Trailbreaker looked startled, tensing beneath his hand. "Wheeljack?" he asked uncertainly.

He didn't dare look up. He couldn't bring himself to meet Trailbreaker's optics and risk seeing them fill with disgust in response to his touch. Instead he brought his other hand up, resting it lightly on Trailbreaker's chestplate alongside the first, and leaned into him, bringing more of their frames into contact.

Trailbreaker's hands slid tentatively around his waist components, gathering him into a tentative embrace.

Wheeljack nearly collapsed out of sheer _relief_; only the solid support of Trailbreaker's frame prevented him from sinking to the floor. Relaxing into his embrace, he rested his helm against Trailbreaker's chestplate, savoring the familiar warmth, the assuaging hum of his working systems.

"Stay with me tonight," he whispered. "Please stay."

Trailbreaker drew back in surprise. "Are you sure?" he asked. "I didn't think you'd want to."

Wheeljack stiffened, tension shooting through his servos. He hadn't entertained the notion of actually interfacing with Trailbreaker tonight – he'd been so uncertain Trailbreaker was willing to touch him, he hadn't even considered the possibility – but now that Trailbreaker had brought it up, he felt an unmistakable flare of panic seize hold of his spark.

The memory files of Starscream's cruel words and malignant touches were all too fresh, too recently restored to his cache. If Trailbreaker started touching him in _that_ way, Wheeljack felt certain even those well-meaning efforts would leave him feeling sick and shaken, just as they had that first night.

He pulled away from Trailbreaker reluctantly, his spark clenching in anguish. He mourned the loss of contact, but knew the price of maintaining it was more than he could afford to pay.

Trailbreaker released him readily, but seemed bewildered by his sudden withdrawal. He stared at him with bemused optics as Wheeljack moved away from him, wrapping his arms tightly around his chestplate.

"Tell me what you want, Wheeljack," Trailbreaker said after a long, silent moment, his tone gentle and uncertain. "Do you want me to stay, or go? Do you want to 'face with me, or not?"

"Stay," he said, a hint of static seeping into his vocalizer. "I want you to stay. But not…" he trailed off, hugging himself, feeling broken and pathetic. A part of him wanted to hide, to tell Trailbreaker not to even _look_ at him, but he forced himself to raise his helm anyway, meeting his puzzled gaze.

"Tell me what you need," Trailbreaker said encouragingly.

"I don't want to be alone," he admitted, his vocalizer crackling. "Could you just…hold me?"

Trailbreaker relaxed visibly, the tension in his posture evaporating. "Of course," he said with a smile.


	32. Acceptance

**Title: **After Atlantis  
**Obligatory Disclaimer:** I don't own Transformers.  
**Warnings: **PTSD angst, references to rape, references to sex.  
**Author's Note:** Bloody hell, nearly six months without an update! I apologize for the long, long wait. For some reason, this chapter was really difficult to write. (Plus I broke my keyboard and random things kept cropping up to distract me.) I know I said this would be the final chapter, but it ended up running longer than I expected, so there will be one more, an epilogue of sorts, to tie up the loose ends. (I couldn't resist working in one last episode reference.) Muses willing, it won't take anywhere near as long as this one did, but it may be a few weeks at least. Thanks for reading!

**Chapter 32: Acceptance**

_You're going to_ _enjoy_ _this_.

Starscream's jack was in his port, his hands moving over his frame, his presence invading his CPU.

_That's it, just a little more... _

He was _everywhere_. He was _inside_ him, he was making him _feel_ –

_Come on, Autobot. Give it up, give it up for me..._

Wheeljack's optics snapped online, a choked sound escaping his vocalizer as his vents hitched and stalled. A violent tremor ran through his frame, making his servos twitch in tiny spasms. For a moment he struggled with his own systems, fighting to draw air through his intakes, terror coursing through his circuits like a living thing.

"Wheeljack?"

He sat up sharply, turning toward the voice even as he flinched away from it, propelling himself backward instinctively as every circuit and servo screamed for him to flee.

"Easy," Trailbreaker said, holding up his hands, his voice gentle. "It's all right. You're on the _Ark_. You're safe."

His backstrut struck the wall behind him with a jolt, forcing air through his vents in a harsh gasp.

"It's all right," Trailbreaker said again. "It's just me."

Wheeljack slumped forward, panting through his intakes, relief coursing through him as he realized he was in his own quarters, his own berth.

Trailbreaker sat up slowly, regarding him with troubled optics. "Sensor echo?" he asked after a moment.

He nodded helplessly, unable to speak, still trembling in reaction. It had been a bad one, a near-literal reiteration of Starscream's assault, right down to the mocking laughter that seemed to echo in his audials.

Trailbreaker reached out hesitantly, his fingertips brushing Wheeljack's arm in a light, uncertain touch.

"I keep seeing it," he said, his vocalizer raw with static. "No matter what I do, I just keep _seeing_ it."

Trailbreaker made a pained noise, gathering him into his arms and crushing him tight against his chestplate.

"I don't want to see it anymore," Wheeljack said, huddling into his embrace, clinging to him like a lifeline. "I don't want to feel _him_ anymore."

"Talk to me," Trailbreaker said, his deep voice gentle. "Tell me what you need."

"I don't know," he said despairingly. "I don't know how to fix it. I just want it to _stop_."

"I wish there was something I could do to help," Trailbreaker said.

Wheeljack straightened, meeting his optics. "You _do_ help," he said. "Just you being here helps. The echoes aren't as bad when I recharge with you. They only come when something reminds me –"

He trailed off as Trailbreaker drew back suddenly, staring down at him with a frown on his faceplate. "Is that why you stayed with me?" he asked. "Why you kept letting me 'face you? So you wouldn't get sensor ghosts?"

"No!" he replied hastily. Trailbreaker gave him a hurt, dubious look. "I mean…maybe. Kind of," he admitted, ducking his helm.

Trailbreaker vented a sigh. "I guess I always knew it wasn't really me you wanted."

A sudden flare of panic gripped Wheeljack's spark. "I _do_ want you," he said, raising his helm to meet Trailbreaker's gaze, pleading with his optics for him to understand. "I _need_ you."

"For recharge," Trailbreaker replied bitterly, shaking his helm.

"No," he insisted, seizing hold of Trailbreaker's arms when he tried to look away. "For _everything_. The echoes don't come when I'm with you because I'm with _you!_ Because it _is_ you."

Trailbreaker turned back to meet his optics, his expression conflicted. "I'm no medic," he said. "I'm just a standard-issue mech. There's nothing special about me."

"You – you make me feel…safe," he said, struggling to find the right words to explain, to force them past the crackle of static invading his vocalizer. "Like – like maybe everything's gonna be okay. Like _I'm_ gonna be okay. Because you're –" he broke off abruptly, interrupted by a burst of static.

Trailbreaker laid a hand on Wheeljack's shoulder strut, regarding him sadly. "I want to believe you," he said. "It's just…how can I be sure? I mean, all this time you've been 'facing me, and you didn't even _want_ to."

"I _did_ want to," he admitted, shame eating through his circuits. "I liked 'facing with you."

Trailbreaker gave him a look that was at once sad, worried and dubious. "It scared you," he said softly. "I scared you."

Wheeljack shook his helm. "_I_ scared me," he said."Because I wanted – I _liked_ it when you 'faced me." He bowed his helm, too ashamed to look Trailbreaker in the optic. "But I shouldn't, right? After…after _that?_ I shouldn't want to."

"I'm no medic," Trailbreaker said again. "I don't know if you should or not. Maybe that's normal."

"What if it isn't?" he asked softly, his spark pulsing with dread. "What if…what if there's something really wrong with me? What if he made me…_wrong?_"

Trailbreaker's grip on his shoulder strut tightened. "You're _not_ defective, Wheeljack," he said sternly. "You got hurt. Starscream hurt you. What he did to you…that'd shake anyone. I feel sick just thinking about it."

Wheeljack's helm shot up at that, his spark clenching.

"Not about you," Trailbreaker said hastily. "About him doing that to you. You having to go through all that."

Wheeljack nodded mutely, his hydraulics depressurizing.

"I don't think there's anything wrong with you," Trailbreaker continued. "I mean, you've been through something awful, but...you're still _you_." He huffed a little, looking abashed. "I still think you're amazing, and I still want to be with you. I just don't want to make things harder for you, or make you feel like you can't talk to me."

Wheeljack looked at him, feeling strangely apologetic. "I'm not really good at…talking," he admitted.

"You're talking now," Trailbreaker pointed out. "And I get why you didn't before. You were scared. Scared of what I might say."

There was a time when Wheeljack would have bristled at the suggestion that he was actually _afraid_ of something, but this time he simply nodded. "Yeah," he said.

"Must've been hard, keeping all that to yourself for so long," Trailbreaker said. "But I guess you talked to Ratchet about it."

Wheeljack shook his helm. "Not really."

Trailbreaker cocked his helm in surprise. "You didn't? Why not?"

"'Cause he's Ratchet," Wheeljack replied with an awkward shrug.

"I thought Ratchet was your best friend," Trailbreaker said, frowning in confusion.

"He is," he said. "That's why I didn't want him to know." He huffed through his vents. "He found out anyway."

"Does anyone else know?" Trailbreaker asked.

Wheeljack shook his helm. "Just Optimus. Ratchet told him. He had to report it; it's a rule."

"Optimus Prime knows?" Trailbreaker asked. "What'd he say when he found out?"

"He took me off active duty," he said quietly.

"Oh," Trailbreaker said. "I guess that makes sense." But then he frowned. "Wait – if you were off active duty, how come you came along with us yesterday? Did Optimus change his mind?"

"I asked him to put me back on," he said, shrugging awkwardly. "I didn't want him to think I was useless."

"Optimus would never think that," Trailbreaker said.

"I know," he said. "He even told me as much." He fidgeted uncomfortably, rubbing his neck cables. "But he didn't want to let me back into combat," he admitted. "He said I wasn't ready."

"You think you are?" Trailbreaker asked cautiously.

Wheeljack wanted to insist that he was, that yesterday's battle had just been a glitch, but he knew in his spark it would be a lie. "….no," he said finally. "Optimus was right. I'm not ready."

"That doesn't make you useless though," Trailbreaker said. "Fighting the 'Cons isn't the only thing you can do. Pit, it's not even the most important thing – you invent new weapons, fix us when we get hurt –"

"I know," he said, cutting him off. "It's no big deal. It's just…I just _hate _it."

"Hate what?" Trailbreaker asked.

"The way everyone acts when they find out," he said. "Like they have to be _careful_ with me. Like I'm…broken."

Trailbreaker pulled him into his arms, hugging him close. "You're not broken," he said. "A little dented, maybe. You're still one of the bravest mechs I know."

Wheeljack cycled a sigh, resting his helm against Trailbreaker's chestplate and slipping his arms around his waist components, drawing comfort from his embrace. Trailbreaker's plating was warm, the steady hum of his systems familiar and reassuring.

He wished he could stay like this forever, safe and secure in Trailbreaker's arms, but he knew it couldn't last. Trailbreaker would have to report for duty in a few kliks, and so would he – and he still needed to talk to Optimus Prime.

He was about to ask if Trailbreaker wanted to go for some energon when he realized there was a message waiting in his queue.

It was from Ratchet.

_Jack – _

_You're probably already in recharge by now, but I wanted to let you know I've put you on the damaged roster for tomorrow and set up an appointment for you with Hoist. I'll brief him first thing in the morning so he'll be ready to meet with you in the afternoon. Enjoy your day off._

_If you need anything else, just ping me._

– _Ratchet_

Trailbreaker must have noticed the sudden increase of tension in his servos, because he drew back slightly, looking down at him with concerned optics. "Are you all right?" he asked. "Do you need me to let go?"

"No, I'm okay," he said, straightening to meet his gaze. "Ratchet left me a message – he put me on medical leave for the day, and made me an appointment with Hoist."

"But that's a good thing, right?" Trailbreaker asked. "You talking to Hoist?"

"I guess," he replied with little enthusiasm.

"You'll do fine," Trailbreaker said reassuringly. "If you want, you can tell me how it went when I get back from patrol tonight. We can meet in the common room for energon."

"Sounds good," he said. "I'll save us a table."

x.x.x.x.x

Wheeljack tried not to feel apprehensive as he made his way down the corridor that led to Optimus Prime's office. He'd sent an appointment request to Prime shortly after Trailbreaker had left to report in to Prowl, retrieving the cube of energon left over from the night before from his subspace as he transmitted the message.

It was accepted before he'd finished refueling.

Wheeljack tried not to dwell too long on the implications of that, on the fact that Optimus had obviously been waiting to hear from him. He concentrated solely on putting one foot in front of the other, and tried not to think about what would happen once he got there.

His resolve lasted right up until he reached Optimus Prime's door.

_I have to do this,_ he told himself firmly. _ I gave him my word._

It felt like failure, like admitting defeat. _You were right,_ Wheeljack would tell him. _I can't handle going into battle if there's a chance _he_ might be there. I can't handle it at all._

His fuel tank churned at the thought.

Cycling a deep draught of air through his intakes, he drew himself up to his full height, and transmitted his query ping.

"Come in," Prime's voice called.

Gathering his courage, Wheeljack squared his shoulder-struts and went inside.

"Good morning, Wheeljack," Optimus Prime said as he entered. Optimus was seated behind his desk, surrounded by stacks of datapads awaiting his perusal – reports from the _Ark's_ other officers, no doubt. Wheeljack wondered briefly if Ratchet's was among them.

"Morning, Optimus," he replied, not quite meeting his gaze. "Thanks for taking the time to see me."

"Of course, Wheeljack," Optimus said, inclining his helm cordially. "How are you feeling?"

Wheeljack resisted the urge to wince. Optimus Prime was never one to mince words. "Fine," he said.

Prime nodded, regarding him expectantly.

He huffed through his vents. "I guess you already know why I'm here."

"I have an idea," Optimus replied. "Is this about yesterday's battle?"

"Yeah," Wheeljack said, flexing his shoulder-struts uneasily.

"Have a seat," Optimus said, gesturing toward a chair. "I was busy with Megatron, so I didn't see what happened. Was it Starscream?"

"Yeah," he said, taking a seat in the chair Prime had indicated. _Remember what Trailbreaker said_, he reminded himself. _Combat isn't everything. You have other skills._

"Ratchet and I were hanging back, like you ordered," he said. "Cliffjumper got hit, and Ratchet went to help him, and I was – I was trying to cover them, but then I saw Starscream attacking Trailbreaker. He was, uh, going after the humans, and Trailbreaker was trying to protect them. He was in trouble."

"I see," Optimus said, a look of comprehension dawning in his optics. "So you went to assist him."

"Yeah," he said, trying to shake off the uneasy feeling that Optimus was looking right through him. "I hit Starscream with one of my gyro-inhibitor shells and he crashed, but he, uh…he didn't offline."

Optimus nodded. "Go on."

Wheeljack shifted uncomfortably, avoiding Prime's optics. He didn't want to repeat all the horrible things Starscream had said to him, the way he'd mocked him in front of Trailbreaker and the humans. "He couldn't fight, after that," he explained. "He couldn't even stand. So instead he…he started talking to me." He cycled air through his intakes, forcing his vocalizer to transmit the words. "He said I...h-he said..."

"The details aren't necessary, Wheeljack," Optimus interrupted gently. "Just tell me what happened next."

Wheeljack lifted his helm in surprise, startled by the unexpected reprieve. "I locked up," he admitted. "I wanted to – I wanted to shoot him, but I couldn't move."

"I understand," Optimus said. "Then what happened?"

"Jazz blew up the energon stockpile," he said. "I heard Megatron calling for a retreat, and then Ramjet and Dirge came to get Starscream. They shot at us, but Trailbreaker shielded us all with his force field, so they gave up and flew off."

"I see," Optimus said again.

"You were right," he concluded, bowing his helm, his vocalizer barely rising above a whisper. "I couldn't handle it."

"You came to the aid of a comrade in trouble, and helped defend a group of innocent humans," Optimus pointed out. "I'd say you handled things quite well."

Wheeljack's helm jerked up in surprise, meeting Prime's optics squarely for the first time since he'd entered the room. Even with a mask, Wheeljack could tell Optimus Prime was smiling.

"I still locked up," he said, lowering his helm again. "If Trailbreaker hadn't been there…"

"You wouldn't have needed to confront Starscream," Optimus finished for him. "You chose to put another Autobot's safety before your own, just as you always have."

Wheeljack fidgeted in his seat, his circuits heating in response to the unexpected praise. Did Optimus know that he and Trailbreaker were involved? Would he think less of Wheeljack's "courage" if he did?

"I take it you're here to ask to be removed from active duty again," Optimus said. "Would that be an accurate assumption?"

"Yeah," he said softly. "I'm sorry, Optimus."

"There's no need for apologies, Wheeljack," Optimus Prime said. "Your recovery is my primary concern."

He nodded, unable to find words for a suitable reply.

"For what it's worth, I think you've made the right decision," Optimus said, regarding him with an uncharacteristically candid expression. "I've been…concerned about you. I can't help but feel somewhat responsible."

"It's not your fault, Optimus," he said. "Someone has to give the orders."

"True," Optimus said. "But it's more than that, Wheeljack. I fear I've set a bad example, made you feel you had no choice but to live up to my expectations, regardless of the cost to yourself. I never wanted that. I'm relieved you've chosen to take the time that you need."

Wheeljack stared at him, startled by the sincerity of Prime's tone, at the hint of guilt lingering in his optics. He'd always known Optimus cared about the mechs under his command, but somehow he'd never considered the possibility that Optimus Prime might be worried about _him_.

"I'm going to be all right, I think," he said. "Maybe things will be better now. I mean, I _hope_ they will be."

Optimus nodded. "So do I."

x.x.x.x.x

"Be right with you," Hoist called in response to his query ping.

Wheeljack waited, feeling vaguely bemused. He wasn't early; he'd put off heading for the repair bay for as long as he dared. In another klik or two he'd be officially late.

The door to Hoist's office slid open. "Good afternoon, Wheeljack," Hoist greeted him affably. "I'm sorry to keep you waiting. Please come in."

Hoist stepped back to allow him to enter, moving to take a seat behind his desk. He pushed aside a handful of tools and datapads as he settled into his chair, clearing a space on the cluttered surface. "I'll just be a moment," he said apologetically, casting a sheepish glance in Wheeljack's direction. "Have a seat," he added, waving a hand in the direction of one of the chairs.

Wheeljack complied, a little puzzled by Hoist's demeanor. It wasn't that Hoist was behaving strangely – quite the opposite. If not for Ratchet's assurance that he would brief Hoist on the situation beforehand, Wheeljack would have wondered if Hoist was under the mistaken impression Wheeljack had come in for a standard maintenance exam.

"Sorry about that," Hoist apologized again as he finished tidying his workstation and looked up, meeting Wheeljack's optics. "It's been a rather hectic day."

"No problem," he replied. "So, um…I guess you talked to Ratchet?"

"Yes," Hoist confirmed. "We spoke this morning."

"Right," he said. "So you know about…?"

"Yes," Hoist replied. "I must admit, I'm rather surprised Ratchet didn't refer you to me sooner. It's been nearly an orn since we fought the Sub-Atlanticans." There was no rebuke in Hoist's tone, just a hint of mild puzzlement.

"He wanted to," Wheeljack admitted. "But I, uh…didn't want anyone else to know."

"Ah," Hoist said. "That would explain it." He gave Wheeljack a meaningful look. "You realize of course that anything we discuss here is strictly confidential? Nothing you say will leave this room without your express permission."

Wheeljack looked up in surprise, meeting his optics. Hoist's tone had been firm, uncompromising – Hoist clearly took his patients' privacy very seriously – but his gaze held only calm reassurance.

But as comforting as that was, it was also somewhat alarming. Implicit in Hoist's assurance that Wheeljack's secrets wouldn't be shared with the other Autobots on the _Ark_ was the expectation that Wheeljack _would_ be sharing them with _him_.

Wheeljack suppressed a shudder, recalling the way Ratchet had interrogated him about his assault, forcing him to recount every astrosecond of Starscream's attack in humiliating detail. Whatever questions Hoist intended to ask, Wheeljack was sure they would be just as…_personal_.

But it was too late to back out now. He was here. He'd agreed to go through with this.

_You'll do fine,_ Trailbreaker had said.

Wheeljack prayed he was right.

"So," Hoist said. "How have you been doing lately?"

Wheeljack cocked his helm, wondering if his audials had glitched. "Fine," he said.

"Good, good," Hoist replied absently, reaching down to retrieve something from one of the drawers in his desk. "No maintenance issues, then? No servos out of alignment, stiffness in your rotor couplings..?"

"No, nothing like that," Wheeljack replied. "Ratchet gave me a maintenance exam a little over a week ago. Everything checked out."

"Excellent, very good," Hoist said, his vocalizer sounding muffled because he was still bent over his drawer, rummaging around. After a moment he straightened, setting a full energon cube on his desk. Wheeljack stared at it in confusion.

"Forgive my manners," Hoist said, noting his baffled look. "Have you refueled yet?"

"This morning," he replied.

"I've been so busy, I completely forgot," Hoist said. "Do you mind terribly if I take my cube while we talk? I don't wish to be rude – I have another if you'd like to join me."

Wheeljack almost accepted, but then remembered he'd agreed to meet Trailbreaker in the common room after his shift. "Uh…no thanks," he said. "I promised Trailbreaker I'd refuel with him when he got back from patrol."

"I see," Hoist said, his optics twinkling. "Well, you certainly wouldn't want to break _that_ engagement."

"W-what do you mean?" Wheeljack stammered.

"I've always liked Trailbreaker," Hoist said. "Such a nice mech. I take it you two have worked things out?"

Wheeljack stared at him incredulously. "You – you knew about that? That we were –"

"Difficult not to," Hoist replied with a sheepish shrug. "I don't like to gossip, but you know how it is. Sometimes you can't help overhearing things."

"Right," he said, wondering if he'd been too hasty in his assessment of Hoist's discretion. To be fair, what Hoist had said was true – Wheeljack didn't like to gossip either, but he'd certainly overhead his share from the mechs who did, whether he wanted to or not.

"Have you been seeing each other long?" Hoist asked.

"About a decacycle," he replied with a shrug.

"Ah," Hoist said. "Were you friends before that?"

"Not really," he said. "I mean, I knew who he was, but we didn't, you know, hang out or anything."

"What changed?" Hoist asked.

Wheeljack shifted slightly in his seat, not liking the way this conversation was going. Things might be different now, but when he'd first gotten involved with Trailbreaker, it hadn't been with the best of intentions. "I guess it mainly started when I offered to come up with some mods to help increase his efficiency," he said. "We spent some time working together and, uh, sorta hit it off."

Hoist nodded. "Grapple and I started out as friends too."

Wheeljack had the bewildering impression he was having the wrong conversation. "Should we really be talking about this?"

"What do you mean?" Hoist asked. "Are you uncomfortable with this topic?"

"No," he said, which was sort of the point. "I just thought…well, aren't you going to ask me about – about Starscream?"

Hoist cocked his helm, studying him thoughtfully. "Did you want to talk about Starscream?"

"_No_," he replied emphatically.

Hoist nodded. "I thought not. I imagine you've had quite enough of reliving it lately."

Wheeljack stared at him in disbelief. "But…but that's why I'm here, isn't it? T-to talk about it?"

"You're here to talk about whatever you need to talk about," Hoist replied. "If you want to talk about Starscream, we will. If you don't, we'll talk about something else."

Wheeljack's hydraulics depressurized with a quiet _hiss_. "So…I don't _have_ to talk about it?"

"Only if you want to," Hoist said. "It's more important that we talk about how you're feeling now. What's been troubling you, how you're dealing with it."

"Oh," he said.

"Is there anything you _would_ like to talk about?" Hoist asked.

Wheeljack thought for a moment. "Can we talk about you?"

"Me?" Hoist sounded surprised. "That's a bit unconventional. What exactly did you have in mind?"

"Ratchet said you had…experience with this sort of thing."

"Oh," Hoist said, catching on. "Yes, I have."

"What kind of experience?" he asked. "Have you ever – did it happen to you?"

"Not to me personally, no," Hoist replied."But I have served as counselor for a number of mechs who've survived similar assaults – processor hacks, memory file alteration, forced reprogramming –"

"Back on Cybertron, you mean," Wheeljack said, his tone making it a question. "Since the war began." He'd heard rumors about questionable tactics being employed by both sides when the fighting first broke out, methods of retrieving information from the enemy that were highly immoral, to say the least.

Hoist hesitated. "I'm not at liberty to say."

Wheeljack gave him a startled look. Was Hoist implying there were other 'Bots on the _Ark_ like him? He activated his vocalizer to ask, but Hoist cut him off before he could speak.

"I think that's enough about me," Hoist said. "If you have any doubts about my qualifications, I can provide you with a datafile of my credentials."

"No, that's okay," he said, understanding abruptly why Hoist had deflected his question. If he answered it, Hoist would be violating the same promise of confidentiality he'd made to others that he'd offered to Wheeljack.

"In any case, we're here to talk about you," Hoist said, not unkindly. "So. What's on your processor?"

Wheeljack thought for a moment, then asked the first question that came to mind. "How long does this sort of thing usually take to fix?"

Hoist shook his helm, seeming almost amused. "Engineers," he said. Meeting Wheeljack's gaze, he replied, "It will take precisely as long as you need it to take. Every mech is different. Every situation is different."

"Does it ever…not work?" he asked hesitantly.

A look of concern flickered across Hoist's faceplate. "What do you mean?"

He lowered his helm, avoiding Hoist's optics. "Is the damage ever….you know, permanent?"

Hoist seemed puzzled. "To what damage are you referring? Your medical file indicated you'd been fully repaired."

Wheeljack shrugged, not raising his helm.

"Wheeljack?" Hoist persisted. "In what way do you feel you are damaged?"

"I can't fight," he admitted. "The last time I tried, I completely locked up. I can't work. I can't even recharge –"

"You've been experiencing sensor echoes?" Hoist asked.

Wheeljack nodded. "Yeah."

"That's to be expected, under the circumstances," Hoist said. "What you're describing is quite normal for a mech in your situation."

"Do they ever go away?" he asked.

"Eventually, yes," Hoist said. "They're usually at their worst immediately following the assault, but they typically decrease in frequency and intensity over time." He tilted his helm, trying to meet Wheeljack's optics. "They can also recur during times of emotional stress."

"Right," he said.

"You needn't live with them, though," Hoist said. "If you find they're interfering with your ability to function normally, I can prescribe a processor inhibitor to ensure you're able to complete a proper recharge cycle."

Wheeljack lifted his helm to stare at him in disbelief. All this time, all he'd had to do was _ask?_

"Of course, it's generally better to avoid resorting to external solutions whenever possible," Hoist continued. "Sensor echoes like the ones you've been having are often a useful indicator of how well your recovery is progressing. Artificially suppressing them tends to slow the process. But it can make it easier for you to function in the short term. If you're having genuine difficultly, it's worth considering."

"So it's like a field patch," Wheeljack said.

"Exactly," Hoist replied.

Put like that, in terms Wheeljack could understand, the problem seemed a little less overwhelming. Just knowing that a means to block the sensor echoes was available if he needed it made the thought of facing them easier to bear. _And I haven't been having them every night,_ he thought. _They're already starting to go away._

"Any other questions?" Hoist asked.

There was _one_ question Wheeljack wanted to ask, but he balked at the thought of actually asking it. What if Hoist's response confirmed all his fears? He glanced up, and found Hoist regarding him intently.

"There is something, isn't there?" Hoist said.

Wheeljack shrugged uneasily. "Kind of," he admitted. "I was wondering about…about interfacing."

Hoist nodded. "What about it?"

"H-how long does it usually take, before, um…"

"Ah," Hoist said, comprehension lighting his optics. "Difficult to say, really. Every individual is different."

"Right," he said, his vocalizer barely rising above a whisper.

"It's quite common to feel hesitant about engaging in physical intimacy after an assault of this nature," Hoist said, his tone gentle and reassuring. "Even with someone you trust and care about."

"Yeah," he said, avoiding his gaze. "That's what I figured."

"There's no need to push yourself into something you're not ready for," Hoist said. "There's nothing wrong with wanting to wait until you feel more comfortable."

Wheeljack shrank down into his chair, curling in on himself. _I was right_, he thought. _There really_ is _something wrong with me_.

"Wheeljack?" Hoist said. Wheeljack could feel his optics on him, studying him thoughtfully.

"What if I don't?" he asked quietly.

"Ah," Hoist said with sudden understanding. "It's also quite common to have normal urges, and to feel conflicted about them. Have you tried self-service?"

Wheeljack squirmed in his seat. "I, um…I don't usually…" He trailed off. "Yeah," he admitted reluctantly.

"Were you able to achieve overload?" Hoist asked.

He nodded miserably.

"And it made you uncomfortable," Hoist guessed. "That's not surprising. The body tends to resume normal function quite quickly – sometimes well before the mind is ready."

Wheeljack could feel his circuits heating with embarrassment. "So, uh…what should I do?"

"It depends on how you feel about it," Hoist replied. "What's most important is that you acknowledge those feelings. _Allow_ yourself to feel conflicted. You may feel that way for some time."

"But won't that make it….you know, worse?" he asked.

"It may seem like it should," Hoist said. "But giving yourself permission to _be_ conflicted allows you to address the source of those emotions and process them in a productive way. Much like performing repairs on a device that's malfunctioning – the first step is to identify the cause of the problem."

That explanation sounded logical enough to Wheeljack, but he still wasn't sure how he was supposed to put Hoist's advice into practice. Strictly speaking, he already _knew_ the cause of his problems. "...okay," he said. "I'll try to remember that."

"We can discuss it further at our next appointment," Hoist said. "I'm afraid we're out of time for this one."

Wheeljack looked at him in surprise. "You mean…we're done?"

Hoist nodded, seeming amused. "For this session, yes. If you'd like to arrange for a longer one next time, I can see what openings I have available."

"No, no, this is fine," Wheeljack replied quickly.

Hoist chuckled. "Then I'll see you next week."

x.x.x.x.x

By the time Wheeljack left the repair bay, it was nearly time for Trailbreaker to return from patrol, so he headed straight for the common room, intent on securing a table and rations for the two of them before the evening rush began. He chose one on the far side of the room, taking the seat facing the door so he'd be able to see Trailbreaker the moment he came in.

A few 'Bots had greeted him along the way, and several others stopped by his table to say hello while he waited. Some inquired after his condition, but to Wheeljack's relief, they all seemed to be under the impression that the damage he'd suffered was a result of being hit by Starscream's null ray, an event common enough to be considered unremarkable. His secret was safe, at least for now.

Apart from that, Wheeljack was left alone, which gave him time to think. Foremost in his thoughts was his appointment with Hoist. Overall, it hadn't been bad. Hoist hadn't made him talk about what happened, or asked how he felt about it. He'd simply answered Wheeljack's questions and offered his advice. Hoist hadn't acted like he pitied him, or treated Wheeljack as if he were somehow fragile. He'd acted…normal.

The traffic in the common room had just begun to pick up when Trailbreaker arrived. Wheeljack stood and waved him over, earning himself a broad smile.

"Hey," Wheeljack greeted him as he approached their table. "I got you a cube."

"Thanks," Trailbreaker replied, settling into the seat opposite him. His large frame blocked Wheeljack's view of the door, but also shielded him from the optics of anyone else who entered, for which Wheeljack was profoundly grateful. He didn't really feel like dealing with any more well-wishers.

"How was patrol?" he asked.

"Quiet, which means it was good," Trailbreaker replied, picking up the cube Wheeljack had gotten for him and taking a sip. "Whatever the Decepticons were up to today, they weren't doing it on my route."

"They're probably still putting themselves back together after our last battle," he said. "It was a pretty big explosion."

Trailbreaker chuckled. "You're the expert, I guess you would know."

"Hey, no fair," he retorted, more amused than annoyed. "I haven't blown up anything lately!"

"In that case, you're probably about due," Trailbreaker teased. But then his expression sobered. "Actually, that reminds me…you think next time you're working on something dangerous, you could comm me?"

"Sure, if you want," he said. "What for?"

"So I can keep you safe," Trailbreaker replied, as if the answer were obvious. "What good is having a force field if you can't use it to protect someone you love?"

Wheeljack looked up at him in surprise, his vocal indicators flickering wordlessly. _This is real_, he thought in amazement. _He loves me._

"I'd like that," he said. _No, that sounds stupid_. "I mean, I'd _really_ like that."

Trailbreaker smiled and opened his mouth to reply, but a familiar voice interrupted him.

"'Breaker, there you are! Sorry I'm late; I got hung up talking to – oh," Hound said, catching sight of Wheeljack. He shifted his weight awkwardly as he glanced back and forth between them, clearly at a loss. "Um…is everything okay?"

Trailbreaker smiled fondly at Wheeljack, reaching across the table to take his hand. "Everything's great."

Wheeljack met his gaze, his circuits heating with an emotion that was neither embarrassment nor lust. Hound and the rest of the common room seemed to fade into the background, leaving only the look in Trailbreaker's optics, the sensation of Trailbreaker's hand on his. He couldn't look away.

"Oh!" Hound said. "I just remembered, I promised Beachcomber I'd do that, uh…thing for him. Gotta roll!"

"Catch you later, Hound," Trailbreaker replied as Hound departed, his optics never leaving Wheeljack's.

"I guess that's one way of telling him," Wheeljack said.

Trailbreaker chuckled, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. "Yeah, I think he got the message."

"So are we...okay now?" he asked.

"I'm definitely okay," Trailbreaker said. He tilted his helm, giving Wheeljack an inquiring look. "Are _you_ okay?"

"Fine," he said, turning his hand to take hold of Trailbreaker's and returning his gentle grip. "I'm fine."

For the first time in a long time, he really was.


	33. Epilogue: Affirmation

**Title: **After Atlantis  
**Obligatory Disclaimer:** I don't own Transformers. This chapter contains references to scenes from the G1 cartoon episode_ "Trans-Europe Express" _and an oblique reference to_ "Triple Takeover."  
_**Warnings: **PTSD angst, references to rape, references to sex, sexual situations.  
**Author's Note:** *deep breath* Soooo…here it is, the long-awaited conclusion. When I started this fic over a year ago, I had _no idea_ what I was getting myself into. I always knew I would finish it eventually, but I'm sort of amazed the day has finally come. I want to thank all my readers for their support and encouragement, especially LJ-user Vonderbarr, the poster of the original prompt, and Kookaburra, my beta and brainstorm buddy from chapter 3 onwards. Without you, "_After Atlantis_" might still be gathering dust in my brain. This final chapter is dedicated to you. Thanks for reading!

**Epilogue: Affirmation**

Wheeljack onlined his optics with the distinct feeling that something was wrong.

He stared up at the ceiling, trying to figure out what it was. The ceiling. The ceiling was wrong. It was orange, which meant he was onboard the _Ark_, but it wasn't _his_ ceiling. The room he was in was much larger than his quarters, and he was alone on the berth. Where was Trailbreaker?

He tried to sit up, and a blinding wave of pain assaulted his sensor net. He cried out, and the next thing he knew Ratchet was there, his hand on his shoulder strut, pushing Wheeljack back down onto the berth.

"Don't try to move yet, 'Jack," Ratchet said. "I'm still putting you back together."

All the pieces abruptly fell into place. He was in the repair bay. He'd been damaged.

He didn't need to run a self-diagnostic to know it was bad. Memory files were flooding his cache, images of winding mountain roads, the Black Sea…

_The Europa 2000._ A charity race from Paris to Istanbul. Optimus Prime had sent a group of Autobots to participate because one of the human drivers, an American named Auggie Cahnay, was driving a car in it made by SymulTech Industries, a company that specialized in cutting-edge technology. Prime had been worried Megatron might have designs on Auggie's car.

Wheeljack had wanted to go from the moment he'd heard about it. After being cooped up on the _Ark_ for over an orn, the simultaneous opportunity to see one of Earth's latest technological developments and to join in a race spanning several countries had been too tempting to pass up.

Fortunately, Hoist had approved of the idea. The medic had felt that participating in the race would be the perfect way for Wheeljack to begin rebuilding his lost confidence, and had even gone to Optimus Prime personally to recommend that Wheeljack be allowed to go.

Wheeljack had been delighted when he'd learned Prime had accepted Hoist's proposal, and Trailbreaker had been ecstatic, especially after he'd found out Sunstreaker and Sideswipe were also participating.

_Kick their tailpipes for me,_ Trailbreaker had said with a grin. _They could use a dose of humility._

At first, the race had gone off really well. Wheeljack had even been in the lead. But then Motormaster showed up.

The initial collision sent Wheeljack into a roll, but he managed to get his wheels back under him and floored his accelerator. Motormaster was larger and stronger than he was, but also significantly slower. Wheeljack knew the Stunticon would never be able to match his top speed.

Motormaster tried anyway, dogging him through a series of sharp curves. It was a testament to the Stunticon's skill that he didn't go careening off the side of the cliff, but Wheeljack suspected Motormaster's antigravs might have something to do with that. His suspicions were confirmed when Motormaster launched himself off a steep drop-off and landed ahead of him sidewise, blocking the road. But Wheeljack was still lighter and quicker, and he was able to mount the sloping rock face and bypass the impromptu blockade.

He gained a small lead as Motormaster struggled to straighten out and continue his pursuit, tearing down the narrow winding road as fast as the sharp turns would allow. Motormaster was hot on his wheels, but the gap between them was steadily growing. One last burst of speed would end this race.

They rounded a corner, and Wheeljack spied a second road below them, one with a sizeable straightaway. He leapt for it, intending to max out his acceleration when he landed and leave the Stunticon sucking on his exhaust.

He forgot about the antigravs.

Sixteen tons of Kenworth K100 Aerodyne tractor-trailer came crashing down on top of him like a runaway wrecking ball, and Wheeljack's world went white with pain. He dimly recalled trying to activate his comm to transmit a distress beacon…

…and that was all.

"What happened?" he asked.

"Stunticons, the way I hear it," Ratchet replied, waving a hand to include the rest of the repair bay. Wheeljack turned his helm in the direction he'd indicated, and spotted Smokescreen, Sideswipe and Sunstreaker laid out on repair berths as well. "Which one of them got you?"

"Motormaster," Wheeljack said. "He landed on top of me."

Ratchet winced in sympathy. "Ouch. That explains all the damage. Hoist and I have been working on the four of you ever since Skyfire brought you back home, and you, my friend, are the worst of the lot. Congratulations."

"Gee, thanks Ratch," he said, his vocal indicators flashing in amusement. "How long 'til I get outta here?"

"Another joor at least," Ratchet replied. "Might as well make yourself comfortable."

Wheeljack nodded, and settled in to wait.

x.x.x.x.x

"So how'd it go?" Trailbreaker asked.

Wheeljack looked at him. Once they'd finished refueling, he'd invited Trailbreaker back to his quarters. Now they were sitting side by side on his berth. Trailbreaker had his arms around him.

"Okay, I guess," he said. Trailbreaker's chestplate was warm where it pressed against him.

"Did it help?" Trailbreaker asked. "You talking to Hoist?"

"A little," he said. "He, uh…he said it was normal. That I'm not…you know."

"Told ya you weren't defective," Trailbreaker said, giving him an affectionate squeeze. "I'm glad it helped."

"Yeah," he said. "So, uh…did you want to?"

Trailbreaker drew back in surprise. "Are you asking what I think you're asking?"

Wheeljack looked away, his circuits heating with embarrassment. "Well, that's – that's what you wanted, isn't it? F-for me to ask you?"

"More than anything," Trailbreaker replied. But when Wheeljack reached for his chestplate, Trailbreaker caught his hand. "Wait."

A little flare of alarm surged through his spark. "Why? Don't you want to?"

"Is that why you're asking me?" Trailbreaker said. "Because you think I want to?"

The words were like a shot to his laser core. "Don't you?"

"Of course I do," Trailbreaker said, giving his hand a squeeze. "But I want _you_ to want it, too. Really want it – not just for me, but for you." He tilted his helm, trying to catch Wheeljack's optics. "So I guess the real question is, do _you_ want to?"

Wheeljack hesitated, wrestling with himself. Did he want this?

A part of him did. A small, uncertain part of him wanted desperately for Trailbreaker to touch him the way he had before, to make him feel…loved. Another part said that he owed Trailbreaker this, that he needed to show him how sorry he was for all the lies and deception. But Wheeljack suspected Trailbreaker wouldn't be satisfied with that.

"You don't, do you?" Trailbreaker said softly. "Not yet."

_It's normal to feel conflicted,_ Hoist had said. Was that why this was so hard?

"I don't know," he admitted. "I just…I don't know."

Trailbreaker smiled, gathering him close. "Let's wait until the answer is yes."

x.x.x.x.x

"Raise your right arm forty-five degrees," Ratchet said.

Wheeljack looked up, pulled from his review of past memory files by the sound of Ratchet's voice. "Huh? Oh, sure." He did as Ratchet had asked, lifting his arm off the berth. It gave a disheartening _creak_.

"Still needs some tweaking," Ratchet muttered, returning his attention to Wheeljack's shoulder joint. "All right, you can lower it again."

Of course the day had come when the answer _had_ been yes, Wheeljack recalled as Ratchet resumed his repairs. It had started out just like any other day. He'd onlined in Trailbreaker's arms, they'd gone for energon, and then Trailbreaker had been called away to duty – something about a damaged water main – leaving him to report to his lab alone to try and get some work done.

He hadn't seen Trailbreaker again until that night, but when Trailbreaker had returned, dripping wet but triumphant, the sight of him had sent of flush of heat through Wheeljack's systems. At first he hadn't been sure what to do. He'd stammered out a greeting, fidgeted his way through their evening rations, even twitched when Trailbreaker's hand brushed against his backstrut. It wasn't until they'd returned to the privacy of his quarters that Trailbreaker finally asked what was wrong.

_I want you,_ he'd replied.

The words had come out as soft as a whisper, but they'd come. And afterward he'd explored every inch of Trailbreaker's frame, laying claim to each circuit and servo while Trailbreaker strained and shuddered beneath him, chanting his name like a mantra.

He shifted on the repair berth, hoping Ratchet hadn't noticed the spike in his core temperature _that_ memory inspired. Since that night, there'd been many others like it – including a few in which _he'd_ offlined _Trailbreaker_ – and Wheeljack had gradually come to realize what his spark had known for decacycles.

He was in love.

"–jack? Are you even listening to me?"

Wheeljack shook his helm, distracted once again from his musings. "What?"

Ratchet huffed in annoyance. "You haven't heard a word I've said, have you? I said you're free to go. I just finished."

"Oh," he said. "Right, sorry." He sat up carefully, glancing down at himself. His paint job needed some major touch-up work, but the damage Motormaster had caused was completely repaired. "Thanks, Ratch."

Ratchet smirked. "Go on, get outta here."

x.x.x.x.x

But he'd never said it out loud.

Wheeljack stared at the tools spread out over the workstation in his lab, too preoccupied by his own thoughts to decide which of his current projects he wanted to work on. It wasn't that he didn't _want_ to tell Trailbreaker how he felt – he just couldn't seem to force the words past his vocalizer. Every time he imagined himself saying it, to his audials it always sounded overly melodramatic, or glib and insincere.

_I'm sure he already knows,_ he thought as he cleared off a section of the cluttered workspace to give himself more room to maneuver. _It's not like I_ have_ to tell him._

…or did he?

Perhaps it was due to his recent injuries, but Wheeljack couldn't help feeling like he _needed_ to say it, to tell Trailbreaker just how important he'd become. They were, after all, involved in a longstanding war. Things happened, just like they had today. He hadn't even been on active duty.

He glanced down at himself, taking in the fresh weld lines and irregular patches of exposed primer Ratchet's repairs had left behind. If the damage Motormaster had inflicted had been just a little bit worse, he might not have returned from Istanbul at all. And with Trailbreaker a whole continent away, there would have been no time for last goodbyes.

He sat down in dismay, struck by the implications. In war, nothing was certain. One surprise Decepticon attack, one explosion too many, and it could all be over in an instant. The same was true for Trailbreaker as well. Either one of them could be terminated at any time, in battle or by some tragic accident.

And Trailbreaker would never know how Wheeljack truly felt about him.

The thought of leaving Trailbreaker behind to wonder whether or not Wheeljack had ever truly loved him, or of having to live on without him, plagued by regret because he'd never said three simple words…

The thought was almost unbearable.

_I have to tell him_, he decided. _He has to know_.

But that still didn't answer the question of _how_ to tell Trailbreaker. Just because Wheeljack knew he needed to say it didn't make it any easier to do. If anything, it made it harder, all the more important that Trailbreaker understand he really _meant_ it. He couldn't just blurt it out at random, or simply echo the sentiment when Trailbreaker said it –

A query ping sounded in his audial, interrupting his thoughts. "It's open," he called.

The door to his lab slid open, and Mirage stepped through. "I heard you had a bit of trouble at the race," he said.

Wheeljack grinned inwardly. He wasn't surprised that Mirage had already heard the news. Over the past orn, they'd spent a lot of time together, and in the course of that association he'd discovered that Mirage had an insatiable craving for gossip.

Not that Mirage ever _spread_ rumors; the former noblemech simply liked to listen, to hear all the latest details about everything that was going on aboard the _Ark_. And he was remarkably good at getting them – Mirage often seemed to know about things long before they hit the public rumor mill.

Wheeljack suspected Mirage's electro-disruptor was the source of that advantage, although Mirage vehemently denied ever doing anything so uncouth as _eavesdropping_. It was probably what made him such an effective spy, Wheeljack reasoned – Mirage was constantly gathering intel, be it Megatron's latest plot or Brawn's most recent failed attempt to woo Windcharger.

Mirage's current visit was probably more of the same. Wheeljack knew for a fact that Mirage had wanted to participate in the Europa 2000, but he'd been disqualified from entering – something about his alt mode not being "road legal" – so the former noblemech had been forced to stay behind. Naturally Mirage would want all the details about the race, if only to experience them vicariously for himself.

"Unfortunately, yeah," he replied, swiveling his chair around to face him. "Had a run-in with Motormaster."

Mirage gave an audible gasp at the sight of him. "Primus, Wheeljack! You look dreadful!"

"Gee, thanks, Mirage," he replied wryly, his vocal indicators flashing in amusement. "Good to know."

Mirage's mouth snapped shut, and for a moment he looked utterly mortified. But then his expression turned stern. "Get up," he said. "Whatever you're working on, it can wait. No friend of mine is going to be seen walking around in _that_ condition, even if I have to repaint you myself."

Wheeljack chuckled and got to his feet. He knew better than to argue with Mirage when he used _that_ tone. He needed a retouch anyway, and it would be nice to have someone to help him with the hard-to-reach spots, especially someone as fastidious as Mirage.

Mirage insisted on paying a visit to the washracks first, where he fussed over Wheeljack until the engineer felt downright spoiled by all the attention. Mirage also questioned him at length about the Europa 2000 while he worked, so Wheeljack supposed his efforts weren't entirely selfless – the longer Mirage lingered over seemingly-invisible specks of dirt on his plating, the more time he had to press Wheeljack for details.

He had paint that matched his color scheme back in quarters, so after Mirage was satisfied he was clean enough, they headed back there. But after one look at the supplies he had to work with, Mirage insisted they go back to his own quarters to "do the job properly."

So now here he was, doing his best to hold perfectly still while Mirage carefully stripped, primed and repainted every inch of his chassis. Left to his own devices, Wheeljack would have simply retouched the damaged portions of his plating and called it a day, but Mirage insisted on giving him a full repaint.

"Are you sure all this is really necessary?" he asked again.

"Yes, it is – and hold _still_," Mirage replied imperiously from behind him. "If you keep moving around like that, I'm going to make a mistake, and then we'll have to start all over."

_That_ was enough of a threat to effectively weld his feet to the floor. "Sorry Mirage," he said. "I appreciate you going to all this trouble for me."

"It's no trouble," Mirage said, his crisp tone softening. "Once the paint dries, I'll give you a wax as well."

"You don't have to do that," he replied, feeling abruptly sheepish. He'd begun spending more time with Mirage because he found he genuinely liked the former noblemech, but he suspected Mirage valued their association a little more than he did. Mirage, he'd discovered, was painfully shy around most 'Bots, and had few friends aboard the _Ark_.

"Oh, believe me, you'll thank me when I'm done," Mirage said. "When Trailbreaker sees you, he won't be able to keep his hands off you."

Wheeljack felt his circuits heating with chagrin at Mirage's suggestive tone. Mirage may have been shy around most 'Bots, but among friends he was often embarrassingly frank about certain topics. When Wheeljack had passed on his message about Hound to Trailbreaker, Mirage had been only too happy to share the details of his plan's success. Wheeljack wondered if his current insistence on fussing over him was Mirage's way of repaying the favor.

"How is Trailbreaker these days?" Mirage asked. "Hound hasn't mentioned him lately."

Wheeljack glanced over his shoulder at him. "Huh? Oh, he's fine. He's out on patrol today."

"Don't move," Mirage chided him. "So everything's going well for you two?"

"Everything's great." It really was. "Really great," he added, his tone softening.

Mirage straightened, abandoning Wheeljack's detailing in favor of circling around to look him in the optic. "Why do I get the feeling there's something you're not saying?"

Wheeljack hesitated. He'd thought about asking Ratchet for advice, but in light of Ratchet's feelings for him, it seemed cruel to ask. Ratchet had been busy in the repair bay anyway, and so had Hoist. But perhaps Mirage could help?

"That's sort of the problem," he admitted. "I've never said it."

Mirage frowned. "Said what?"

He shrugged. "It's not like it's a secret or anything. I've just…never actually said it."

"You haven't told Trailbreaker how you feel about him," Mirage said, catching on. "Not the actual words."

"Yeah," he said. "I mean, I'm sure he already knows. But I feel like I should tell him anyway."

Mirage smiled. "I had a hard time telling Hound, too. It just never seemed like the right time."

"How'd you finally do it?" he asked.

Mirage looked abashed. "Oh, I just blurted it out one day. I must have sounded so silly. But it was a relief to finally say it."

"I can't even do that much," he admitted. "Every time I even think about saying it, it's like my vocalizer locks up. I can't get the words out."

"For me, it was easier after Hound and I had uplinked for the first time," Mirage said. "I already knew that he loved me, and he knew I felt the same."

"Oh," he said quietly.

Mirage must have picked up on something in his tone or posture, because he frowned and cocked his helm. "What's wrong?" he asked. "Did I say something I shouldn't have?"

Wheeljack shook his helm, avoiding his gaze. "No, it's not that. It's just…Trailbreaker and I, we've never –"

"You've never uplinked?" Mirage said, looking incredulous. "Well…I must admit, I'm surprised. You two always seem so in tune with each other, I just assumed that you had."

"Yeah," he said diffidently.

"So what's stopping you?" Mirage asked.

"Me," he admitted, meeting Mirage's optics briefly before returning his gaze to the floor. "I guess I'm just afraid to find out how he really feels. That if he sees who I really am, he won't love me anymore."

Silence.

"I guess it's kind of stupid to think that," he said, glancing up nervously, but the look on Mirage's faceplate muted his vocalizer. Mirage's expression looked pained, as if Wheeljack's words had struck agonizingly close to home.

"What?" he said. "What did I say?"

Mirage shook his helm, smiling ruefully. "Nothing," he said. "I was just thinking we really are a lot alike." He stepped forward, laying a hand tentatively against Wheeljack's shoulder-strut, as if uncertain of its welcome. He was still smiling, but it was a wan, sorrowful smile that didn't quite reach his optics.

"For what it's worth," Mirage said, "I think Trailbreaker really does love you. You can see it whenever the two of you are together, or whenever he talks about you. I can understand you being afraid, believe me. But I don't think you need to be."

Wheeljack stared at him, struck by the depth of compassion in his tone.

Mirage withdrew his hand and looked away, seeming almost embarrassed. "Trailbreaker and Hound are a lot alike, too," he said with a tiny shrug. "But it's not as if there's any rush to tell him how you feel. Maybe you're not ready for that. When you _are_ ready, you'll probably be ready to uplink, too."

"So you think I should wait?" he asked.

"If you need to," Mirage said. "When the moment is right, you'll know. Don't worry about when it will come. Wait for the moment."

x.x.x.x.x

Once the final coat of paint had dried, Mirage had gone on to polish Wheeljack's plating to a blinding mirror finish. Wheeljack appreciated his efforts, but he felt a little foolish when he saw the results. He was just so…_shiny_.

He'd thanked Mirage anyway, and then headed on to the common room to wait for Trailbreaker.

Mirage's prediction about Trailbreaker's reaction to his freshly waxed and repainted frame proved to be entirely accurate. Trailbreaker's jaw literally dropped at the sight of him, his gaze sweeping over Wheeljack's chassis like a starving mech who'd just stumbled upon a massive cache of energon cubes.

"You look _incredible_," Trailbreaker said, staring at him in amazement.

"Mirage did it," he replied, shrugging abashedly. "To be honest, I feel kind of silly. I guess soot and scorch marks are more my thing."

"Remind me to thank him," Trailbreaker said, making a visible effort to tear his optics off Wheeljack's gleaming chestplate to meet his gaze. "Not that you weren't gorgeous before, but…_wow_."

Wheeljack ducked his helm, a flush of heat suffusing his circuits at the compliment. "So, uh…do you want to grab a cube?"

"If it's all the same to you, I think I'd rather go back to your quarters," Trailbreaker replied, his optics flashing. "Otherwise I might have to ravish you right here."

The look Trailbreaker was giving him was so heated Wheeljack felt his own core temperature jump several degrees. "S-sure, if you want," he said.

Trailbreaker grinned and grabbed his hand, pulling him towards the door.

x.x.x.x.x

Fortunately his quarters were nearby; Trailbreaker had his hands on his hip plate before Wheeljack could even punch in the locking code, and he flubbed it three times before he finally got the door open because Trailbreaker was greedily mouthing his neck cables.

They stumbled through the door in a tangle of groping limbs, their energy fields pulsing and their engines running hot. Trailbreaker had him up against it the instant it slid shut, his fingers buried in the wires at Wheeljack's hips.

Wheeljack moaned, arching into him, his hands pressed flat against Trailbreaker's chestplate to absorb the vibrations of his roaring engine.

"Primus, I love those sounds you make," Trailbreaker panted, his vents cycling hard. "You think Mirage'll be torqued off if I ruin all his hard work?"

Wheeljack wasn't sure whether Mirage would be or not, but he definitely didn't want Trailbreaker to stop what he was doing. "He'll get over it."

"Your plating is so _smooth_," Trailbreaker whispered ardently, running his hands over Wheeljack's sides and chestplate. "It feels like glass – was this your idea, or Mirage's?"

"Mirage's," he said. "He – _oh Primus, do that again!_ – when he saw how slagged I was, he insisted on giving me a full repaint."

Trailbreaker pulled back abruptly, drawing a disappointed whine from his vocalizer. "Wait, what do you mean, slagged? Did something happen today?"

"Yeah, kinda," he said, his engine dropping back to a low idle now that Trailbreaker had stopped touching him. "I got jumped by Motormaster during the race. But I'm fine now; Ratchet put me back together."

Trailbreaker frowned, a worried look passing over his faceplate. "How bad was it?"

Wheeljack hesitated, not wanting to worry him after the fact. "Pretty bad," he admitted. "But I'm okay now, really."

Trailbreaker cocked his helm, giving him a careful look. "You sure? 'Cause we don't have to do this if you're not feeling up to it."

"The Pit we don't," he retorted. "If you stop now, I won't be the only one getting slagged today!"

"Ooh, tough talk," Trailbreaker said, his engine giving a short rev. "Tell me more."

x.x.x.x.x

Wheeljack stared up at the ceiling, his sated circuits humming with contentment. Trailbreaker's helm was resting against his chestplate, his strong arms wrapped around him. Their internal fans had already cycled down, and the steady ticking of their cooling engines was the only sound in the quiet room.

He wanted to say it.

_I love you_.

Just three small words, easy to pronounce.

_I love you._

"Trailbreaker?"

"Hm?" Trailbreaker shifted slightly, raising his helm to look at him.

"I love you."

Trailbreaker smiled. "I love you, too."

A tension Wheeljack hadn't even realized was there suddenly eased from his servos. He'd finally said it. And it hadn't sounded glib or insincere. It had sounded perfectly normal. Looking back on it now, he couldn't help wondering why it had seemed so hard before. It hadn't been hard at all. It had been easy.

_Maybe too easy,_ he thought as Trailbreaker lowered his helm again, settling more comfortably against him. They were just words, after all. Anyone could say them. Of course it was different when you really meant it, and Wheeljack truly did.

But did _Trailbreaker_ know that?

It wasn't as if he hadn't lied to Trailbreaker about his feelings before. Trailbreaker had forgiven him for that, said he understood why Wheeljack had done it, but did Trailbreaker understand that he _wasn't_ lying now?

"I mean it," he said, reaching up to touch Trailbreaker's helm. "I really love you."

Trailbreaker chuckled. "I love you, too."

He didn't doubt that Trailbreaker meant it. In all the time they'd been together, Trailbreaker had never once lied to him. But for Wheeljack, just saying the words didn't seem like enough.

His hand drifted down from Trailbreaker's helm to his back, his fingers trailing over the sleek black plating that made up the roof of Trailbreaker's alt mode, stroking it absently. It was still warm.

Of course there was one _sure_ way to let Trailbreaker know how he felt, but Wheeljack wasn't contemplating _that_.

…_and then he plugged into me._

After what had happened with Starscream, Wheeljack had sworn he'd never uplink again.

_Link with me_, Trailbreaker had said. _I want to feel you –_ really _feel you. Link with me._

He'd been certain he'd never want to.

_I already knew that he loved me, and he knew I felt the same._

Trailbreaker squirmed under his hand, snickering. "That tickles."

"Sorry," he said, halting his idle caresses.

"I didn't say stop," Trailbreaker replied with a grin, his optics twinkling with mischief. "If you wanna go another round, just say so."

Starscream had used him for his own ends, and had made no attempt to hide his disdain. Wheeljack had _felt_ his contempt. But Trailbreaker loved him, and Wheeljack truly loved him back.

Gathering his courage, he reached for Trailbreaker's hand. His own was trembling as he lifted it and placed it on his chestplate, directly over his access panel.

"I love you," he said again.

Trailbreaker's optics widened in surprise.

x.x.x.x.x

_"Are you sure you want to do this?"_

_"I think so…but…"_

_"Yeah..?"_

_"__I'm scared."_

_"You don't have to. You don't ever have to. You don't have to prove anything to me."_

_"I know. I want to. I want to show you. I want you to know."_

…

_"Oh, Wheeljack…"  
_

_***fin*  
**_


End file.
